Translations of a Beachgoer

The ocean in its blue heave breathes, says nothing.The running sand moans of the labors of earthBeneath hard wind and waves, time's grind,The breaking of mountains, the slow cliff-Slumping, the crumbling fields-- then sleep:Heavy, rippled, vital, trembling, deep.The sea-grasses sigh to the breezy east,Harping their sharp edges with brief skill bornOf salt roots, responsibility: the thin dying matOf tight fibers, holding down the shore. They say"As long as we are here, here we will stay."The keening gulls grieve for the tethered feetOf soughing grass and children already sandaled--The earth-chained, who will never knowThe wild gray dive winged from thunder-taut airOr the ancient swell of open water, without fear.They keen: "What binds you to the certain dirt?What is more rewarding than riding the storm?What did you gain in exchange for free wings?"The ocean in its blue heave breathes, saysNothing.