The steeds of the waves foam into their bits
And rear up, with fear-widened nostrils,
They tear toward the land,
A demon holds the fire-coloured bridles
In his hard hand.

When he cracks the whip, the night tears apart,
And above him and his steeds whirls
A blue radiance,
Then the seagulls plunge down from the rocky cliffs
And shriek.

Upon the shore, for many hours already,
Insane fear in her dulled eyes,
Stands the fisherman’s wife;
With clumsy caresses, the demon catches
At her body.

[He] burrows in the tangled beauty of her hair
And from her narrow, white shoulders he pulls
The folds [of her shawl] away,
With his hoarse voice he breathes into her ear
An audacious word.

She hears it not! She throws herself to the ground
And stretches her arms pleadingly toward him:
"My husband . . . my husband!"
Then she screams, and over her limbs
Passes the team [of the steeds of the waves].