Robinson

On the sea dead near a fiery sleep
The siren with trees uprooted which floats
Cast its shadow on chest and lower back
The slap of the waves reveals one drowned
The index clue of fishes' rushed night wandering
When salt-water runs from shells and iron stakes
The masts with flowers and livid clouds loaded straining
Flapping on the beach where they come sleep, they summered
Magnetized by death the astrolabes and battens
And the barrels of rum against the cliffs have rolled
Near dirty tables and glasses badly washed 
The spice of coffee in the plains surprised 
Does not reflect in this swarm any lion crawling 
Banally dressed up in silk in crimson in gold 
The forest has lost the smile of the grasses
And the shepherds nibble their whistles of elder
Sightseers girls and assiduous painters 
Abandon towns where they no longer bray
Since which the murderer has lost his suspenders
In the leaden dungeons where none have gone astray