Every idle moment of her living hours rise the waves
without thinking any less of her, than any other human
Only she cannot resist the waves, rushing. She is
a feather, or a tablecloth of cotton. Be it a wave of musty water,
of a horrendously powerful gust of wind, she is taken easily
into depths or highs. Lungs full of water. In walks light,
in the same way, without thinking any less of her, than the
other standing beside her. Only she cannot resist, keep the
door closed. She is a open book, where waves write with
alphabet of seaweeds, winds with clouds and rain.
Lightning rips whole pages apart, without thinking any
less of her, than the other walking beside her.
Every idle moment, not thinking any less of herself,
she cannot resist.
