The first dew lit by the morning star
always stays in his heart.
The silver of the tree extends
in the form of a woman brought by the moon.
One day he travels to islands where fish
edge the streams
in the luminescence of the lights.
He has dreamt of navigating
a celestial waterfall.
In silence the navigator docks in a dry port
of flat-bottomed boats
and the wind is a masked bird.

Paulo Huirimilla