On the Tower

I stand on a balcony high in the tower
in a whirlwind of clamoring starlings
and, like a maenad, allow the storm
to root in my tossing hair.
You wild compatriot, you big show-off,
I want to fiercely embrace you
and, sinew to sinew, two steps from the edge,
to wrestle for life or death!

And far below at the beach, the waves,
as briskly as mastiffs at play,
crash and hiss as they gambol around
and flecks of the bright foam leap.
Oh I wish I could dive in straightaway,
right in the boisterous pack,
and hunt in the depths of the coral jungle
that jovial quarry the walrus!

And above me I see a pennant blowing,
as brave as the king’s own standard,
and I see the keel shift up and down
from here in my airy lookout.
Oh, I want to embark on a fighting ship
and seize the wheel in my hands
and with a swoosh like a flying gull
to skim by the surging reef.

If I were a hunter in open fields,
or even a bit of a soldier,
if all else denied I were only a man
then that is how God would advise me.
Instead I must sit, like a good little girl,
so delicate and clear,
and may only secretly loosen my hair
to let it run free in the wind!