Shipland

At the FAIM festival in France I read a poem called Skiplân (Shipland) with a French translation.

This is the working translation of the poem. It is used to help translate the text from the original
language into other languages, but is not an official translation:

Shipland

the last illegal flames extinguish and the moon
turns just behind a radio tower
as we exit the hotel
a gang of flamekeepers
with nothing in our pockets
but toothbrushes and blank lines
we speak italenglish, ice-french, spirabic
leave most of what we know
behind in our rooms

in the harbor we hijack a cruise ship - European
with sports facilities
and as we exit civilization
we complain:
in this country you are no longer
allowed to rhyme anything!
we disseminate experimental information
and deny that our traveling territory
would be a province of China

late in August (on someones birthday) we imagine
the dark green archipelago of Shipland

nos pensabu / we imagine - and there it is, more mythical than
the silver island on the maps of our Venetian
predecessor, Nicolò Zeno

nos skipum / we create – a paradise lost, the old gardens
of Babylon reborn as a forest in the ocean

love makes the sea wild
in the space between stars

while kissing, the first of us see the beacon
we dream and steer around the viking wrecks

nos ætudjaw / we study - roots of the family tree,
turn of the lighthouse, spirits of forest fire in its high
revolving sphere

nos eramos biðando / we wait - on the deck, awkward
and alert our shadows gradually become one
with the darkness between the trees