On the Lonely Island

 
On the volcanic island, lonely and wild,
whisper ancient secrets and the rocks,
like pages from an old book,
They keep stories that unfold over time.
The black stone shaped by the fire of the earth
It is my parchment, my inkwell, my pen.
With greedy fingers, I carve deep verses,
words that sound on the horizon.

The waves, silent accomplices,
they wash their verses on the black sand beach.
Every syllable, every rhyme, every sigh,
embedded in the memory of the island.
The birds, winged witnesses,
silence my words at sunrise.
And the clouds, faithful companions
they mystify my verses with their silvery gaze.

In this solitude, I am a poet and a sculptor
that creates ephemeral art in eternal stone.
My verses are unreachable
and bright in the dark.
So, on the Lonely Island, I continue to sculpt.
Leaving my mark in the bowels of the earth.
My long poem, eternalized in volcanic stone,
my legacy to the winds and tides.