In these storms of the voyage,
with wind in the bow and without a notebook
with a logbook at the helm,
I want to believe that there is still some lookout
waiting behind the horizon ,
an astonishing apparition.
Because if it is true that there are no voyages left
that lead other lighthouses away
from the treasure in the chest,
let us set course for the port of the graves
where the other light rests,
the one that gave life to the heart...
Because living
is nothing more than unconfessed crime
when there is no left nor the incandescence
of the fire that was
innocence, innocence...
And when the gaze is only a spyglass
to travel through labyrinths
where the data It is religion,
I still believe in the question behind the mirror
where the daring
of Reflection occurs.
Because if it is true that only what is true exists
And that dreams are an air
that gave to unreason,
I will raise a great column in the desert
to dream that I am a dream
and that dreams are dreams...