PORT

Our steps came as far as the gunwale of evening;
the Atlantic sings below the docks,
and it presages a reflection of women
that smile at the commerce
of new lands.

The smoke of boats
enervates the landscape;
hazy crossing
flowering from steamer funnels,
O fair transient of the maritime zones!
all of a sudden, you are the loose
image of the aquarium.

There is an ardent traffic on avenues
opposite the hotel fanned with palms.

You lean out through the lattice
of songs
to the port pounding with motors
and colors of distance
face me in your tender eyes.

Among the poisonous vines
that entangle sleep
I pick up her amorous signals;
bliss awaits us
in the bright summer of her kisses;
the ocean of caresses kneels her down,
and the piano
is a hammock on the boulevard.

She joins the moon there in the masts,
and an ashen wind
carries me her name;
the sailing hectic with handkerchiefs,
and goodbyes score our breasts,
and in the dim memory of all of these pleasures,
only the petals of her thrill
perfume the shores of night.