Night Piece

February 3rd The sea with no waves we recognize, with no stations on its route, only water and moon, night after night! My thought goes back to the land, someone else’s land, belonging to the one going through it on trains at night, through the same place at the same hour as before . . . Remote mother, sleeping earth, powerful and faithful arms, the same quiet lap for all —tomb of eternal life with the same decorations freshened— earth, mother, always true to yourself, waiting for the sad gaze of the wandering eyes! My thought goes back to the land, —the olive groves at sunrise— outlined sharply in the white or golden or yellow moonlight, that look forward to the coming back of those humans who are neither its slaves nor its masters, but who love it anyway . . .