The tide at night, murmur of bare feet on the sand.
The tide, at dawn, opens the eyelids of the day.
The tide breathes in the deep night and, sleeping, speaks in dreams.
The tide that licks the corpses that the coast throws at it.
The tide rises, races, howls, knocks down the door, breaks the furniture, and
then, on the shore, softly weeps.
The tide, madwoman writing indecipherable signs on the rocks, signs of death.
The sand guards the secrets of the tide.
Who is the tide talking to, all night long?
—Octavio Paz, from “Target Practice”
Art Credit Richard Diebenkorn.