He walks this damp beach between a grudge and an illness, the sailor.
He stumbles over rocks and confuses them with memories.
He blasphemes with his tongue in the air; and then he starts laughing, or crying, as the case may be.
Between a dream and a reason he pours his life on himself trying to count, without succeeding, his grains of sand, as round as his loves, as harmless as his illusions...
EN 
IT 