In my white canoe, like the silvery air On the River of Death goes dark, When the moons of the world are circular, I rowed back from the Campo de las Almas. And when the wishes of the low marsh was distressing, Come the dark feathers of the Singing Leaves.
Two hundred times the moons of spring Azure breath rolled over the bay, Decorated with eagle's wings, Painting my face with the ink of death, And the cane broke over my dead body The solemn blue rings, the last smoke
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