They became the wind's brothers; the hurricane is their sister. With wings spread now again and again they soar over the surface of the high seas, while again and once more their wings touch the waves as they hang suspended over the sea. With an incomprehensible cry they salute the sea and the sun. The blue high open seas far from the coast are dear to them, for they scorn the shore where hypocrisy and intrigue reign, where hate suffocates love. Their lodgings are upon the cliffs eroded by the sea or upon isolated shores. Above, under a bright serene sky in the pure air, they enjoy golden liberty, interwoven with the aroma of algae and sages. Over their nests there in the crags, at times the thrush serenades them with the song of love and peace. They are not afraid. They challenge the most violent tempest, the most furious whirlwind, the largest roaring waves. The seagulls are a comfort to the seamen — the fluttering of their wings carries their fantasy to the native regions and into the quiet little huts which glisten on the shore where the faithful wife and children await them. Over demolished masts the seagulls sing the last requiem to the drowning. They also die, put in a gigantic struggle against the magnificent sea and mighty whirlwind under the free tempestuous sky. And when the sea again calms and the furious wind abates the gloomy sky sheds its tears for the dead gulls.

Translated by Carolyn Owlett Hunter
(Contributed by Jery on Wednesday, March 16th, 2011)
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