The wind strikes from the sea.
There is a cold from our side.
Windows come to the north.

We want to overcome the distance,
to jump out on sails.
The big blue is opening for us.

We fall down pale with the breeze under our shirts.
Time was working against our will.
Slowly

we are landing
in this big jump out from overworking.
The seagulls are laughing at us with yellow beaks.

Our home is alive with the voices.
I’m writing down the words on the terrace.

A child is walking through the corridor.
"Someone is writing on... (It passed away)."

It's about me. In the eyes of a child
I am someone. And I am a writer.

Sometimes the poet does not live with people.
Wealth passes by
the way without words.

The entire terrace is all
not written.