He comes every weekend on the same rocky place,

Sits on the boulders and stares away

Talking with no words to the running waves.

He puts big canvas on his left knee

And starts the portrait of the morning sea.

He mixes the paints on the palm of his hand.

And then a magic starts, stroke after stroke.

The sea is his model; the sea is his muse,

Sometimes impenitent, sea changes its moods.

Sea Gulls grab the brushes to paint on the sand

The sea waves sing to him mysterious songs,

The waves whisper stories of journeys 

They made to shores,

Tales of battles and tempting sirens.

Sometime the sea gets ugly and mad;

It roars and throws to the rocks his waves. 

Then, comes the rain and majestic storm.

The painter collects his scatted paints.

And whispers “Good bye, good bye my friend. 

I‘ll see you tomorrow, when you feel better”

In the morning, a new painting is born

With two souls in one on the canvas in frame.

By Petrouchka Alexieva

From: United States