Where time is past,
on my sunny shores,
mirages in awake,
obstruction without truce to reality,
sea foam, reaches the blunt monsoon sand, tin mirror of the moon in it,
which reflections of hope fills money to the dark eyes of the sailors.
Curtains and vagabonds calling in the wind, free and carefree.
The prayers in the arms of the sea do not fly like a bird in search of a blue sky,
but dive in the middle of the storm burst the eye of the typhoon.
Hey, sailor, sailing with the waves, are you not afraid of tears,
that your widow swallowed to content the ocean?
Your soul lost in the depths of the abyss, as the wreck that nobody leaves,
will wander incessantly in search of oblivion. On the reef, I sing your praises,
your courage, your strength, and the angels will carry my words to thy shore,
to hear me sing in the hollow of the shell.
And on the sand, I steeped in millennia my regret,
under the sun, I would burn in your memory enthusiasts miles of rays,
then I will go into the wilderness, to better embrace my misery,
and our souls as two grains away by the wind, take root between land and ocean.
Our sighs, carried by the wind, take to the skies by flying,
common to the depths of nothingness,
and our whispers as steamy bubbles burst on the surface of torment,
to seal with air our oath. And under the moon, confidante of our nights of bitterness,
we bathe in the promise of silver as two children.
