Poetry

When the waves get some height,
the foaming, breaking sea calls him,
to ride them,
to go into the washing water.
Even when a cyclone pushes out bigger waves,
he sees the beauty of tunnel and crest,
he becomes part of the ocean
and his robust tanned body swims
deeper into the sea,
while he searches for the place of birth,
the place where the waves begin
before he stretches himself out on the board like a god
are captured in the foaming tumbling beauty,
and cuts right though a pipe before it breaks with brutal force.