Looking at the sea, the waters now swaying
by Esther Ortega-Lage
in the shaking of waves, wishing don't coming back
to the same shores full with brambles and stones
that rudely are thrown up to the ripples of the foams.
The night goes and returns where my soul seeks refuge
in the peace of the wind and the whispering mist,
a child in his mother's arms, tries to warmth cheerfully,
and the old man, finds placidness in the tides of the sea.
The night takes its solace, strolling in the gloom,
the loneliness, the moon, the spell in the night void,
advises that something travels from a great far away
by telling us to stay, until comes the sunrise.