Poor tired travellers in search of a fortune,
some migrating birds have perched up near the sails,
and their singing resounds through the tautness of the air 
among the masts.

The sea swelling her dark bosom towards her pale lover
sends up to the sky her unrequited wishes.
From  her waves' lips a flight of kisses rise
to the moon.

You, poor tired travellers, will find your fortune,
you'll forget your troubles in sun-drenched countries,
out there! And that is what you chat about so gaily
among the masts.

But ocean, what's the use of swelling your dark bosom?
Your beautiful breasts, scorned by the bright one that flees you,
lift themselves in vain towards the distant kisses
of the moon.

Happy the simple-hearted man who seeks his fortune
with dreams that are sure to come true!
He is joyful like the birds that have perched
among the masts.

But I, like the ocean swelling her dark bosom,
have impossible desires, unsatisfied wishes,
and I too send up many useless kisses
to the moon.