I have heard silver bullets
fall into the sea.
From the windows
of this hospital.
The cold sea of ​​Stockholm.
Swedish in each fish.
Swedish on every wave.
Arrange them by value,
from pure to imported.

From my window,
I prepare my sandals
and my sails.
With fine incense
from Jerusalem.
With sand from Saqqara*.
Hugs and prayers
from my friends.
Kisses from Diana.

The sea unites
Stockholm with the Nile.
The reeds with
pines and roses.
It’s at the same time
a door and a window
that listens to those
who have loved me.

The sea has no great
temples or cathedrals.
Just a fisherman
and some Galilees.

A Christian should proclaim
his good death
to those who want to hear it.
On the walls of Jericho,
on the streets of Andalusia.

To my friends
and my girlfriend,
thanks for the ports
we had visited.
Thanks for the
farewells we had said.
Good is the death
on my path with flowers.
Good is the death
on my way with candles.


Fire, flowers and candles
have no place among the waves.
The sea claims me in its arms
submerging my head delicately.
To raise it between
scalpels and storms.
Removing my tumour
and the silence of my atheism.
Inviting me,
while gently waking me up
with blue serum in my veins.
To swim.


* Saqqara necropolis for the ancient Egyptian capital, Memphis.