Above the opposite hill, a cloud in the form of a snail,
And the sky is pale and the weather seems to be asleep.
Below, the bay with the mussels shines and looks like a puddle
With Olympic size. With corrugated white
The waves are over. In a veil of foam. They do not stop …
First, second and third, fourth wave …
Blinded by salt, by love and by the sun,
And pour out their souls there on the shore.
Beyond the bay mountains to the south pink,
Like towering castles dug into the sky.
And to the west the red sun travels to the wharf,
Diving from there, sinking deep into the sea.
© Elenka Smilenova 2017 – All Rights Reserved