Sandstone in the sea neighborhood. Inside the same children. Everybody first builds his castle. But then, with the help of others, I knock it down. And she rubs her hair with forcibly leaking towers. Mothers do not even notice. Their lips dance with memories. Hands-with the lace of the habit. But the most blind are their eyes. One is red like sunset from waking to the waves. And by asking the sea not to take their men for lasting shells. And the other eye is still white. Not a white savanna. As a hope, which looks in their bosom long and believes that breasts will still be tall as gulls. But they will land in the male hands to drink the salt he calls to himself. They do not see or hear mothers. Because there is no one to tell them. Children's mouths are full of sand. Men have a lover-the sea. Locked in a burning yard, with my back to my dear grandchildren, swallow the shambles with greedy figs. They sweeten old egoism unwillingness to go. To bequeath their days to the living. And the grandfathers do not lead the children of fish. In its yellowed frames throw lonely nets and get hurt their faces - like dry scales. Our children grow up and they are overwhelming in their quest to imitate rank. To us who gave up early to swim. Because of marriage to the bottom. And God only photographed us. And maybe the world at last in the picture will be a pile of young old men. But in the center of this sandstone one child - the son of the captain, does not use the sand for a falling castle. From yesterday's newspaper he wrote, that the father of a sea man has become it makes a boat. Not afraid, that the storm of time will break him. He whispered to the empty paper and in the breast the sails swell. Here they are tomorrow - ship deep. And a captain in a body grew up. But with the same child in the eyes. They do not grow old in the pictures of God who have chosen to be captains. Our human sand is gone. The paper boat remains.
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