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The eternal beauty inside Sorgeto Bay

The narrow plateau under the sun, in the full moon expands, brightens, revealing a side of profiles of crags and slopes, low vineyards, reed beds, opens a horizon of guessed precipices, far away. On the other side, it creaks of pumice volatile, volcanic flour and the trail smells of brooms and Eubea, lost and found.
We go down the steep, and clear and sweet is the night, but there is a land breeze among the ridges, leaving the trace, slips; and imagines the midday light. The rarefied crowd of human ants climbs constantly slow awaited by farmers and anglers in a village of gardens against the sky, bringing valuable goods of uselessness, taking wine and time in six hundred B.C.

During the day, the small bay draws its sickle - curve pressed on the body of blue - and welcomes rare craft, its old loyal and new meddlers. It overlooks them with ancient beauty, induces silently to read stories of cataclysms, wrinkles, folds, erosions, colors born from mother earth. There are semicircles of smooth rocks that form pools and puddles between the beach and the sea telling about Sorgeto. The name includes a wellspring, fumaroles and hot salt waters that the memorable fire frees from its womb; and these vapors rise into the air in a cave, while waters flow ashore, and mingle seawater, mixing up thermophilic algae, they temper, enveloping bodies, relax minds, give a smile. In addition, rumors go down, the ritual is pagan, unknowingly close to divine. Someone spreads clay on face and limbs, soaks in the sun, with splendors that preceded it and survive. The shrewdest men will be mute to contemplate that certainty that the eternal beauty leaves seeds of immortality in their souls becoming bodies. So, every day, until nightfall.

We go down the steep slope, and the descent is a return to ourselves, to be free from unnecessary, to bare while the imperceptible world movement relocates the moon to another celestial latitude, and changes the angle of reflection and the strip above the sea. There is never desire in a hurry, and we do not rush, only desire. Every pause is a thrill going up, more aware.
We return to the fluid womb in the heat that goes back as the wind is silent and the moon sculpts the dark crystal sea, caresses the precipitous walls, whitening. She waits on the shore, the Phoenician goddess, and approaches the infinitesimal juncture - is low tide.
Then her red robe falls to the ground, and everything is mixed with everything, and nothing could die overnight at Sorgeto, in six hundred B.C.