Inside the whale’s stomach I wait
to be set free by Fortune’s breath.
I listen to the waves; futile fists
that beat against the Leviathan.
The candle I light at the moment
I deem to call midnight shrinks hourly.
Scattered bones of eaten fish remind me
of a bare tree carved into a son.
After fourteen days bright Pinocchio
arrives in a wooden boat, swallowed
whole by the Leviathan - it is
more welcome than a joyous Christmas,
his wooden face had found a smile
no hand of mine ever had the grace to carve.