I placed my dream in a boat

and the boat into the sea;

then I ripped the sea with my hands

so that my dream would sink.

My hands are still wet

with the blue of the slashed waves,

and the color that runs from my fingers

colors the deserted sands.

The wind arrives from far away,

night bends itself with the cold;

under the water in a boat

my dream is dying away.

I’ll cry as much as necessary

to make the sea grow 

so that my boat will sink to the bottom

and my dream disappear.

Then everything will be perfect:

the beach smooth, the waters orderly,

my eyes dry like stones

and my two hands–broken. 

–Cecilia Meireles, Brazil