At Mahia Beach
By the moment they thought that the wonderful sea pearls would lose their lives and were about to give up, Moko- the bottle nose dolphin who is the attraction of the beach, friendly with people, accustomed to swimmers and vacationers- appeared. She whispered some dolphin phrases to them, they replied. They chatted a bit more for trust to grow and then they followed her to the exit of the gulf and left graciously. The translation was precise and the interpreter was trustworthy.
If fate brings me ever to New Zealand, if a gentle fate brings me there, I plan to visit the Mahia Beach and talk to her about some details of its diametrical cousin, the once-upon-a-time kind Mediterranean. I plan to tell her about the decapitated seal Monachus-monachus they discovered the other day in the Aegean, hit carefully with knife, and I will entrust her with details about this long gray epic entitled "Ad-Dameer Al Arabi" (The Arabic Conscience) which keeps me in tears for the last few days. The faces of the old men in grief, the Palestinian and Iraqi women who come out of a byzantine fresco depicting the lamentation by the feet of the crucifix. The parades, the big words, the blood fountains, the big words, the demolished walls, the big words. I will tell her about a shore where the translation is erratic and the interpreter is a crook.