Constellations on my skin—
Would they guide or drown the sailors?
I do not know why they appeared,
These dark daylight stars.
An equilateral triangle
The Southern Cross—
I try to make their meaning
Without a compass, without a chart
But my skin is not the sky,
It often lies.
And these marks will sink with me
Into the brown ocean.
They are not for sailors,
No matter how I wish.
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