You exile yourself in the sea
before the hour of your river has yet arrived.
You listen to seashells,
confused voices speaking of landscapes
strange to your source.

You trust you will discover
magical adventures, childhood tales,
amid the futile roar of a thousand shoreless waves.
Your horizon gleams
behind the crimson outline of twilight
while dawn is breaking beyond your zenith.

Return to the blue torrent!,
to the first spring, soft and whispering,
which will journey across the final plain
toward a beautiful and destined end.

Today, the bitter tides of abyssal currents
do not know that you are a sweet spring,
a transparent stream
for land thirsty for harvest.

I sense the whirlpool
that holds your voice within the storm,
and at my center converge
all the surging tides dragging you away.
What invulnerable dikes
will withstand the assault of that sea?