Night, dark mother, of black clouds and agile lightning, whose cries of light to the sea bend: Monstrous of silence I pray three palms of the shore desolate, from where can I return simple, like a sea fire, the look. Cloudy must get it now while the sea punishes its hares, if you think the distress of a star – the north wind blows the gold – and I, without the hangovers of the road, In a happy kiss, angel came, sweet breeze blow between slab lips. On the same path they are travelers a clear moon twilight and the fleeing bird of the storm. For a traveler himself divide into days the road, because the aurora and the flock of light pass vespertino on a single path. Night, gloomy mother: When the last minute of my drunkenness comes, make me suffer here, by the shore from the bitter water. that, if I feel like crying, I want to have blue ideas, and in my words the ring of the tides.