In the morning breeze petals fall off the rhododendron bush. The terrace is
a magic carpet and on the wall sunlight and shadows enact an ancient play.
Dogs still asleep, the cock has not crewed, only the old man across the road
who fears his own death, is up; even for him there is solace in the glory of
an August morning. A plane crosses the sky leaves, behind exhausted dreams;
tired tourists going home. Alfredo is up starting his noisy tractor he will collect
carob beans before it gets too hot. He used to have two of stubborn mules
harvesting took longer then, but the beasts made the landscape more pretty.
I have been here a long time, this tranquil bay away from North Atlantic storms,
so let me soak up the peace of this morning before I set sail for another voyage
across the seas of reveries.
