White hands of waves
Clap against sun bleached stone
The tide begs the shell-ridden shore
To return to it's maker
Licks of foam-cressed water
Taste it's salty edges
Baby blue skies
Cradle soft clouds
And a breeze which roars restless
Throughout the night
I am in awe
Of your dangerous splendor
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem