The
ocean
perfumes
the
blue
dawn,
the
surface
smell
is
so
sweet.
The
waves
mirror
indulgence
and
smiles
that
balance
tenderness
yours
and
mine.
Softness
is
delight.
Why
aren't
all
moments
of
joy?
No
more
an
improbable
search.
Keep
away
the
improbable
gestures.
Glory
is
born
of
baroque
images.
It
doesn't
pass
Spring,
but
it's
visible
in
the
yellow
dawn
that
my
eyes
search
for.
The
breeze
comes
from
loving,
it
doesn't
speak
words
of
love.
It
flies
and
goes,
and
travels
in
green
forests
of
love
and
of
passion.
Illusion?
It's
better
to
go
to
the
Land
of
Fire.
It's
better
to
walk
in
the
snows
of
Kilimandjaro.
