In the inner sense of touch of those seagulls
is an echo of shadows that leads
to an inclement weather wholly of crystal.
What the air lifts is its presence
which, in a measure of lights, dissolves
toward an open and single identity.
What a profound interior is this of air,
whose forms modulate its inexistence!
What can capture man but music
which quietly eternizes the sand in itself
and alone as the waves are distant
one by one, in oblivion, repeats endlessly?
Like his body, also, of shadow
and within its voice the salt is what endures
and that sound of echo in transparence
of one who knows nothing of another eternity.
Can music be something more that shadows
made to the measure of an idea,
engraved on glass by one who forgets
that he causes a god to come forth from among his notes?
Or that what we here call music could
very well be called the wing of a doubt
and the paradise firmly supported by
the trembling of columns within?
English Translation by Dave Oliphant