This vast polar and curious region,

has a real tradition and other fabulous one.

It is sad, horrendous, and cold, and sterile, and bare:

always immense in the ice it is, petrified.

Beautiful and attractive are the peaks of the mountains,

that take, day by day, there, strange forms.

If today they assimilate tones, more beautiful buildings,

Also it happens to be seen there, high plants, frondose,

in beautiful fantasy, tall and showy.

In the face of the rich panel, the beautiful panorama

irradiating under the light that there of the sun emanates,

one sees everything mirroring its gentile model,

in beautiful reflection, in the angles of the ice.

But, when there arrives a cold, heavy air

and in everything that is of ice entering, imprisoned

is; confined and immobile stays in deferment and mute

until that it makes, roaring, all in a thousand pieces!...

As the nature there, our soul becomes ecstasied,

it forms castles in the air with the ice fantasy;

and when it puts an end to the opulent works,

you, reality (you are the air), haughty you come,

in the middle of the delay; and, then, roaring, you spread

and you throw for beyond — castles and watchtowers!...

And we always curse the strong vandalism