In the sky tinged with pink and lilac
it's as though a nonchalant, distracted hand
is exposing the throat of the sleeping dawn
and lifting the frilly veils from her breast.

I've finished my watch. I'm heading to bed. I'm tired.
But first, to you whom I love and my eyes regret,
I want to say goodbye, celestial daisy,
last star who twinkled in the darkness.

Goodbye until this evening, flower of night's garden,
whose bright cup, leaning like a vase,
poured into my vision its wine of white light.
 
Goodbye! your fire grows pale in the clearer air;
and bending inward its trembling petals 
your buttercup grows pale among the meadows of blue.

Here's what an old chant says:
the waves talk as they move.

One tells the other: "My sister,
for us life has no sweetness.

See how rapid its course is!
Its passage is short, its pleasures are too!"

But the other replies: "My sister,
its brevity makes its sweetness.

Long life means extended woes !
And living little means suffering less."

- Butterflies, oh butterflies,
stay down among the furrows.
At most flit about on the heath.
That's enough for your frolics.
What will you do out there,
tiny on the vast ocean?

- Let us alone, you discourager!
We do need to see other games,
other than the usual ones.
When one is tired of honey
don't you know that gall
is sweet in its bitterness?

- But the flowers you need to visit
are not there, you'll not find one. 
They exist only on land.
Poor little unfortunates,
you will die with empty bellies
on the naked lonely water

-Oh you boring reasoner,
draping over our happiness
the wet blanket of glum advice.
Don't you see that those liquid
meadows are iridescent
with lilies, carnations and roses?

- Butterflies, you are crazy,
listen, those flowers
are bitter ocean waves
in which the shimmering  rays
cause a springtime to bloom
in a garden of fantasies.

- What does it matter, if we believe
in the flowers whose rays
gild a beautiful deception!
Even if we couldn't touch them,
isn't there still a pleasure
in risking the adventure?

- Okay,  you are right.
My wishes like yours
carry an offering to the horizon.
We poets and butterflies
venture out in a gay whirlwind,
tiny on the vast ocean.

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.

On the wailing sea
the boat sets off,
alone and very small,
with no sail, just with oars.
If we capsize, 
we won't return.
Pull, let's pull on the oars!

The sea is wicked;
but the joyful man
is not chicken-hearted.
She yells. He sings.
If we capsize, 
we will suffer.
Pull, let's pull on the oars!

On the raging sea
the boat dances.
We're familiar with that,
to hell with the storm!
We won't capsize.
We will survive.
Pull, let's pull on the oars!

On the sea that rolls 
and vomits spray,
the heavy dark sky
descends in a waterspout. 
If we don't change direction
we will perish.
Pull, let's pull on the oars!

On the wailing sea
the boat has returned,
a boat with no oars,
alone and empty.
We will never again
set out and come back.
Under the seaweed let us sleep!

We mourn our griefs, each of us,
One tear follows, then another,
You, who do you weep for? Your sweet homeland,
Your faraway parents, your fiancée.
For me, [I weep for] my existence, wasted
    On broken vows.

We mourn our griefs, each of us.
One tear follows, then another.
Let's sew the sea with these pale flowers.
To our sobs of lament
[the sea] will respond with the turmoil
    Of howling waves.

We mourn our griefs, each of us.
One tear follows, then another.
The flow of the tides is magnified
And it grows saltier,
As long as our species
    Mourns there as well.

We mourn our griefs, each of us.
One tear follows, then another.
Perhaps you yourself, oh sad sea, 
Sea that tastes of acrid, salty tears,
Are, for the inconsolable earth,
    Weeping bitterly.