A weak whistling light, gasping for breath; a sunflower, sniffing the air, planted at the ocean bed, on the ancient slippery rocks; and a lantern, in the captain’s hand.
Two open eyes meant not to see but to be seen, eyelids – hammer iron! from the mighty skies, all white around with darkness in the middle, smiles! oh, but the terror of the restless hearts... thumping, hidden, like seashells underneath them, struggling wings over the ocean bed.
The hissing of a flare-gun splits the storm in half. Ah, the way a frail heart stutters when rain swallows a beam of white, when between the raindrops there is nothing but the biting dark, when light's spyglass is looking the other way, and the dark says: “Oh, my poor captain, kill the light, it's too late to pray.”
But there he is standing... lightning, thunder, a sunflower, behind centuries of impenetrable fear, a sunflower underneath, and the buried skies over him, with nothing with him but a lantern in his hand, and an immovable metal sheep, with its broken wings hanging over the ocean bed.