Dear God, make my mind an oasis of tranquillity,
but don’t chime your great admiration for me
from the bell tower
when I walk back to my ship
from “Campo Alegre,”
smelling of your summer.

This idyllic place
where spotted pigs grow fat on, still,
erectile condoms floating in a ditch of sailors longing
and where rum is a river which makes the silent sing.

When morning broke
and I turned around
for a last look at this place of fractured dreams, infertile Illusion
you blessed me by covering the scene of spent lust
with a blanket of virginal mist.