If you had come from the sole contradictionof an open wound in the seayour exile would just be a rush of bloodto dizzy the islands’ voyaging flesh.But you come from a memory lost in advanceby a squall’s sudden punchby a reflex pelvic thrust of sensea word of distress and silencea memory forever recalledin tomorrow’s journey home.Your death was suspended before your birthfor every woman you’ve never stopped loving.And this woman is an island with saffron feetwhose blue womb is not a simple barrageof bougainvillea or anthurium blooms.SHE is the voice of your story, your life’s voidmemoired murmured for mixing of seasvoice consumed by the huge crater of reefswhose last sigh is a beginning of poems.You are of mixed descent to drown bloodsto recognize traits superposedon the placenta’s profound reflection.You are an artist in need of an imageand your dance is foreverunknown by your roots.You are a pure nomad of signskey to your lips to open vertical words,those that emerge from the very throats of the dead,you are to be born in the friction of sheetsof our impossible islander syllables.From these horizons of blood, of garbled wordsyour heated word capsizes clearnessin my memory’s ocean depths.