My men are manning the ships. Great Phoebus descends.
The glorious light of his chariot makes a glittering
necklace out of the bustling Carthaginian bay.
The frail wooden vessels lining the docks
are wrought of shining bronze, a sheen
turns the sails velvet, the masts gold.
Bare-chested men are still toiling,
bent-double, between the shadows
cast by the primeval crags of mother Gaia
and the desperate glare of another dying day.
The sea’s metallic ripples push our little fleet inwards,
yet soon we must push against them, push out into the deep.
But not too soon. Now is the time when men share their last hearty laugh
with their work fellows, wash the thick sweat off their bronzed brows,
clap each other on the shoulder and saunter off in twos and threes
towards their roofless, three-walled houses. But roofs rise fast
in this city. Every sleepless night I find myself thinking how
one day, I will walk along these streets and be the first
to congratulate their makers when their many labors
find themselves fitting nooks or crannies to nestle in.
But it is not yet, not yet. Patience! Patience and peace,
my heart! —Don’t be startled, my love, by the slightest noise
I make. What did you say? It is only the wind of another dying day.
Phoebus has gone home to bed. The docks are emptied and expectant.
All is well. Go to sleep, my Diana on earth; my place is here for all eternity.