Atlantis | versión final

I’m close to you in the algebra of tides:
The perfect circle of the shores reflects
My wounds that stones have cut.

In the secret light - turned to codexes -
The night is late tonight,
The embrace of the wind wanes
Hour after hour amongst the garden columns.

Our constellations quickly move
Among the waves, stealthy they slip -
Heroes who are not proud of their jests

The elder has set the ships on fire.
Where have the bees gone?

The furrow of months receives my hands
Here is the rain, on the set day
You turned into a wooden century grass
That asks for marble cold -
The day an unadorned tunic
That once again crosses
The geography of your naked arms.