There is an ocean that can’t be filled,
Of immense proportions and it’s barely lit,
You could swim on this thin mirror,
Moving your butterfly arms braking,
Again and again, this image, recking.

There is an ocean that fills every day,
With stories of oceans and mirrors and lights,
Having the power to move, to split,
It caresses the skin of a swimmer.

The swimmer with the golden skin,
Born in the ocean, birth by the ocean,
Has a question that is never answered,
Does the ocean touch his golden skin,
Or his skin touches the ocean?