Vyacheslav Checkanov (goldenounce)

The alone whitish sail is being seen in the mist of the blue sea. What does it seek in that strange and distant land? What has it already lost in its own native land? The waves are heaving, the wind is whistling And the mast with a squeak is getting bend. Alas,- the sail does not strive for happiness And it’s really not happiness that it does abandon. Under it there is the -clearer than the azure- stream, Over it there are the solar golden rays, Still, the restless sail looks for only the tempest, As if the tempest had a rest.