The island, draped in golden clouds,
does not exist anywhere on the chart.
We, the residents of the island, too,
do not exist anywhere in reality.
The sea of merchant Marco Polo's fantasy -
contiguous with it, the sailors'
cerebral ocean in whose storm we float, drift,
we, the so-called Zipangu people:
a multitude who are in the end an illusion, a dream, non-existent.
Never believe our word.