A woman rose up from a greenish blanket
And waded into the sea
(up to her ankles
up to her knees
up to her waist
up to her chest
up to her shoulders
up to her neck)
until the tiny figure melted
under a canopy of waves with sprays of lace.
The wind slowly turned the pages,
reading the book she left on the shore.
At dusk, it gave the tattered tome to the library of the dunes
And filled the mouths of the characters with sand,
still living and choking
the sentences written in an unknown language.
She was a stranger, about thirty years old.
No one knew who she was.
She traveled alone.
Translated by Ada Valaitis
EN 
MK