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The heart beats, without a way out,
master of paths, tender beacon.
It is he who guides in whirlwinds,
in the sweet dance of emotion,
its beats are divine secrets,
a hidden map, our reason.
To obey his song, an art,
a pure instinct that embraces us,
in its pulses we carry the part
of a universe that never tires.
When the storm appears in the sky
and doubts steal our calm,
the heart, beacon and veil,
returns home, returns the palm.
Do what it longs for, that is the key,
let your voice be the rudder,
for each whisper is a gentle bird
that flies high, unrestrained.