On Swimming

The rivers of this country are sweet
as a troubadour’s song,
the heavy sun wanders westward
on yellow circus wagons.

Little village churches
hold a fabric of silence so fine
and old that even a breath
could tear it.

I love to swim in the sea, which keeps
talking to itself
in the monotone of a vagabond
who no longer recalls
exactly how long he’s been on the road.

Swimming is like prayer:
palms join and part,
join and part,
almost without end. - A. Zagajewski