In the puffing gusty nights,
when the lighthouse sways under storm clouds,
and the sea with its burning eyes climbs on the rocks,
you sit silently, thinking—
about Liz—who betrayed you that time—
and the fated, howling longing that exiled you out here
in the storm-beaten Scilly Islands.
And you mumble something to yourself
during the long watches on stormy nights
while the beacon throws its light a hundred miles out in the storm.

translated by Robert Bly