At the end of the world there is a blue ship,
climbing through dreams, a longing in the window.
At the end of the world an angel awaits,
watching by the oak tree with wise leaves.
At the end of the world, like the midday sun,
stopping the future billy goats falter.
At the end of the world, the mystery, giving birth
to the springs of life, arises two celestial bodies.
At night’s margins, a thought like a beast
roars and bellows, with violin tongue.
At sea’s margins, in the story hour,
the Song of Songs, like none other is.