Suckle on rocky shore, beloved Atlantic,
bellow through ghostly fog at tipsy fishermen,
howl for hours on gorse and broom and heathered cliffs.
As for me, I giggle under your moist embrace
and I hate you, you scavenger of childhood dreams.
Whiffs of infinity, and all because of you,
had invaded my soul, fired my ambition.
With salty, chapped skin and with burning throat
I will, one day, show up, cold, naked and alone.
Eyes black with death, I will, in the brine of your sand,
press the grinning remains of my life and my skull.
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Comments about this poem (Atlantic by Donatien Moisdon )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
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