“There lives in me, like in a river, A beautiful woman, elusive and rare, In a bubble of silvery flakes, Iara With golden hair and a cold body. Among the water lilies I flirt and spy: And she, from the mobile mirror of the clear wave, With her moist green eyes, looks at me, And offers me her white and soft breast. I rush, in the impetus of a husband, In the desperation of the ultimate glory, To narrow it, crazy with pride and joy... But in my arms the illusion disappears: And the mother of water, exhaling a pious woe, Breaks apart in dead pearls of foam.”