You left somehow with a flight trail, your ships are still sailing, you want to keep up with the world and I prefer seagulls.

Whoever pulls you by the hand of distance, the vast open sea, you need, and I prefer your eyes, the blue sea, the mirror of the sky.

Since that day the olive branch has not smelled and breathes any more, without looking across the ocean you have gone from the yew gull.

I hope you'll like it.