The meanders of my mind know not its banks,
Transparent they are as my soul,
Placid they may seem at times,
The turbulence they withhold.
They know not from whence they came,
But the end they can foretell.
Why these contours?
Who can tell?
Are these meanders an estuarine wonder?
Or are they divinely vulgar?
Whatever the perspective, negative or positive,
Their bosom weighs heavy with worldly desires.
Do the sun’s rays blacken your complexion?
Do the rainwaters swell your gait?
Does the cold harden your stance?
Do you, like the master and his maid engage in a corpulence that transcends all age?
Oh meanders, break your banks,
Dance to the tune of the heavenly band,
For you know not why God touches you with His hand.
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