I'd set out here,
but the hair is a forest of ambush and snares.
But the brow becalms us, when it's smooth and plain.
The dark pools of the eyes are dangerous to our ship,
for to be drawn into them would be shipwreck.
The nose like the first meridian,
directs us down to the Islands Fortunate,
the swelling lips.
I would anchor here and hear the sirens' songs.
Then sailing on, past the glorious promontory of chin,
we may encounter some islands,
as we travel down towards your India.
And we pause at the Atlantic navel,
where the current carries our pilot on,
to another forest, where many are shipwrecked.
And no further ever get.
