The island has a river, behind the river a dark forest sings
when the wind blows around the mountain.
I once climbed up to its summit in the hope of seeing the mainland,
dreamt of escaping my confinement,
but the glittering sea blinded me.
A Sunday I saw nuns rowing in the bay,
they stopped lifted up and rested the oars,
I saw drops, as priceless pearls,
dripping back into the green sea.
Mist came and obscured them.
I also saw their boat as a shimmer above water.
The nuns were never found,
a statue to honour them was erected.
Every year a bishop comes and blesses the inlet.
He knows as I do, a wish had been fulfilled.
He cannot speak of this; nor can I.
And as always the dark forest sings when
the wind blows around the mountain.
