Astove is an island in the Seychelles archipelago, two and a half hours flight from the main island. I was blessed with the opportunity to go there a couple of weeks ago. An atoll of about 10km with a shallow lagoon in the center. Barely 15 persons live there. Complete isolation. I took the opportunity to keep silent and speak only when absolutely necessary. By the second night there, I became the island. Or I was no more, the Reality of the island was. The feeling of being an island is simultaneously light and heavy. I wrote a small poem as tribute.
I went to a place that was no place
I ended up nowhere but everywhere
And I was only here
It appeared out of the blue of my surrender
Was it my death that gave birth to it?
In any case there it was
afloat
Where sunbirds pop green
Fairy-terns flashed white
And fregates stilled…
Grey herons tore the Stillness into Jurassic fear.
Instincts scream. Predators! What, where?
Oh..me..
Come on guys, it was only crab curry.
There was a smell that tasted of sea
Trees that flamed gloriously
Tortoises hissed, unfriendly
And a sun that set reluctantly
