Old sailor is sitting by the ocean, guarded by the cliffs.
His wife is dead…for whom he would come home and make bonfires out of scratches.
He knew oceans…that’s the only freedom he had,
his extension on seas.
Now he can only see the young ones taking on this flapping naked lady,
he smiles and he tries to reincarnate the old romance…
He gets a hard in his pants…he remembers how these waves used to lick him with their dripping tongues.
His lady of all nights, all stormy, megalomaniac nights.
The maid is here. He doesn’t like her…he curses her…he thinks she is trying to make him separated from his blue woman.

It’s getting dark now, all the seagulls are circling around the crack where waters are getting stuck and making surfs out of rough frictions,
the darkness, the ready-made lights all of these can’t make them forget the smell of their windy shelter.
He smiles again…he lights a cigarettes,low tar and shits, and he makes a direction towards his cottage,
you can always pluck the sailors out of seas but there’s no way you can take seas out of sailors.
He will go to his four walls and he is going to open all the windows in a minute.

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Painting: Eugene Ivanov.