Drawn between two blocks in front of me is the small window to the sea where I look every day. Through it I see the horizon where the blue clear sky rests on the darkest blue of the sea. It's my little entrance to the Mediterranean. It is through her that from time to time the masts of a sailboat appear, which, with its slender helmet, rips the small carpet from my window.

There, far away, the sea is drawn in blue rows cut by white lines of foam and appears serene.

At night when my window only returns darkness, in the silence of the dawn, I gives the sea undulating whispers that caress my ears. He talks to me so calmly, falling, and I, I guess his existence in that dark, unfathomable blackness of my window at night.

Whispers of white foam and collide with the silence on the beach. / p>


Waves that rock the time
in a time that caresses the waves.

It is the beat of time that sketches the coast which, grainy in seconds, becomes on the beach.

But. How many grains of sand form the time, my time?
How many seconds are enough to rock a wave?

The waves of the hours beat on the coast alone. , animated by the wind.

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  • Adam Floyd