They are so bright day, so clear, that the carelessness of white powder covering even the rare slender palm trees. Snakes glide silently in the vineyards, but in the evening the sea becomes darker and the seagulls suspended in the air barely move, punctuation of a higher wrote. On your lips a drop of wine. The limestone mountains on the horizon fade lens, while a star appears. At night, in the square, an orchestra of sailors, in immaculate white uniforms, playing a waltz by Shostakovich. Cry the children, as if intuissero what it’s about that happy music. We were locked up in the box of the world. Love will make us free, time will kill us.