Written by: Bozhidar Pangelov

At that hour
 the breeze turns around.
 The fishermen are coming back
 with hands splintery,
 without lips,
 with eyes of stone.
 The bottom is empty
 like a bottle at midnight.
 The shore is there
 where somebody’s waiting.
 They’ve sleept for a long time. Dreaming.
 With hands locked together.
 He, the wind, the last one
 an orphan, leads