Everybody knows that it exists
It is being drawn on the maps, on globes
But it keeps disappearing over and over from them.
It is being discovered every hundred years.
Every century has its own Columbus.
The data for it
Is being written in an encyclopedia
But during printing, where they used to stand
Sailors and scientists
Convinced that under the whiteness
Are hidden the remnants
Of the ideal state.
From which poets were exiled
Long before they were born.
For a long time and persistently
They keep searching for the New Continent.
They are forgetting that the world