Intro..
Draw...
Poems..



Once upon a time:
beyond the seven mountains and seven valleys:
in a small country under sharp rocks:
there was a place:
where the water was sprinkled and sand was poured:
This place was bewitched: full of half-petrified waves:
and looked like it wasn't from here at all -
mayby therefore: it attracted here from immemorial times
It was just a strange piece of plain
very similar to that - what remains after the arena:
when the big tent disappears:
and here and there: could still be found: the old works of the mysterious potter: which loves spirals so spectacularly:

One day: when the august sun roasted air on heaven:
this place attracted me too:
and: I immediately felt its strength
True: I was already very thirsty and tired:
and therefore: well prepared to daydreams and mirages:
which: moreover: always grow in sand as weed:
and besides: I've been a bit freak from some time:
it was not all right with me:
probably everything was caused by the stork:
which brought me to the world: had to quite tremolous:
and I had to fall into the water few times:
most likely it was the same wacky birdie: which brought Darwin: and Jacques Cousteau here

So: I didn't terrify too much: when I had the idea:
that: if I take my shoes off here and going to walk a little bit:
maybe something fairytale happens:
maybe: right in front of my eyes: will rise from the sand something:
And: if nothing happens:
at least: I will remind this old pleasure to be barefoot in sand:
I will realize my heels:
and everything else I will made up:
because: I can't wait any longer

Simply: I rigged it all:
because: I wanted to write a poem about sea:
which I never saw:
and: I wanted to whisper: to talk to its inhabitants:
about how it spreads -
and to lurk to an opportunity to flatter it -
how it's outlining mysteriously and wisely something:
I wanted to: at this place:
where still some sand left from the arena:
somewhere to cuddle like a message to bottle:
and wait for a dream: which will get me out of here definitely:
right under the tent: to the center of the show:
and: I'll finally be able: as a geographer: to open the legs of compasses:
and: in my white maps: to draw places:
where the tunas are wallowing silver balls of sardines:
where the light catches mackerels and cods to spoon bait:
and the furrows will start to plough-back in a while
Blue places: where mothers are mourned by pearls:
where anemones are speaking flatteries to their clowns:
and tide is gargling little turtles:
Because I know from the penguins: that any morning by the sea
is the natural reason to get dressed ceremoniously:
and from an early age: I carress my ears with shells
Thats why: when I'll snuggle here somewhere: like a slug: around the pearl plaster: down the spiral stairs into myself:
and close in a personal bubble -
the lukewarm stream will surely bring me in the midst of your twenty-four carat evening: and I'll shout:
these aren't cormorants - the freedom scatters leaflets:







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