Appetence now is pilot, not of errant 
trees, but of entire, mutable forests, 
and first to leave Ocean, the father of waters 
    —of whose vast royal domain 
    the Sun, who day after day 
is born in his waves and in his waves finds death, 
does not wish to know boundaries or extent— 
with hair turned white by the spume greed leaves behind,      
    though he admits no second 
in professing those limits to the world.

Three firs of Appetence were those that violated 
    the trident of Neptune, 
venturing farther than any other, 
kissing the turquoise curtains that Occident 
closes for the Sun in his dark blue bed 
    of deep marine waters.

    Then in spite of flying asps 
—shadow on the sun and venom on the wind—                   
of arrowed Caribs, greed’s flags and banners 
always glorious, always fluttering 
broke the Lestrigons that the isthmus armed 
with multitudes of feathers, beasts with wings: 
the isthmus that divides Ocean in two,
and—serpent of crystal—prevents the union 
    of the head, in the North crowned, 
and the scaled tail that illuminates the South 
    with Antarctican stars.

Greed sent second barks to a second pole                           
in a new sea that offered him not only 
the beautiful white daughters of its shells, 
but murderous metals Midas never learned 
    to possess successfully.

Then it was not enough that this element
guided in orcas, enlisted monstrous whales, 
erected battlements of foaming mountains, 
defamed its own sands by blanching them white 
with so many traces of the first daring 
venture—piteous even to the vultures—                             
for those piteous traces to restrain 
a second wave of bold temerities.

You, Appetence, oh you, hellish mariner 
    of deep Stygian waters,
you scorn all the sepulchers the savage sea 
    opens wide for your bones.

The promontory whose rocks Aeolus used 
as locks for other new grottoes, a cave 
for Auster the wind with wings that never dry, 
for Mistral who breathes through a hundred mouths,            
you rounded joyfully, and with obstinate 
lateen yard transformed the cape into Good Hope.

– Luis de Gongora. excerpt from The Solitudes. First Solitude

translated by Edith Grossman