From the top of his three-masts, the sailor whistled without bitterness.
In the raging storm, all hope seemed to have drowned
Under the waves. And suddenly, a land stood out in the mist.
Him, sorry, misled, torn, could again deploy himself.
And from there, O possible mirage, he thought he had seen a peaceful shore.
Fear was transformed into waiting and relieved his young age.
The tumult exults the occult insult of an uncultivated sultan.
Is he under the yoke of a frenzy? He examines. As a result,
The continent stretches through his astounded globes. Is he betrayed?
What is this infamy which affects the affability of his being and curses it?
Provisional quest, assiduously derisory.
Exciting foil, atoning weir.
Shouldn’t he have drowned himself in the whirlwind of this torrent?
Has he not known this flooded region as a stammering chick?