My poems contain no wilde beestes, no lady of the lake, music of the spheres, or organ chants.
Only the score of a man's struggle to stay with what is his own, what lies within him to do.
Without which is nothing. And I come to this knowing the waste, leaving the rest up to love and its twisted faces, my hands claw out at only to draw back from the blood already running there.
Mar de opinioes, ideias e comentarios. Para marinheiros e estivadores, sereias e outras musas, tubaroes e demais peixe graudo, carapaus de corrida e todos os errantes navegantes.