gedicht

Seagulls sail the winds,
grey with white rimmed wings,
caressing the salty air,
pregnant with moist,
filled with rains to come.

An English drunk sings Elvis-songs,
says hello to all who walk, pass by,
and I don't pity him, he's having fun,
while I just sit, on a bench in Ostend,
Feelings brewing with ferocity to come,
like the sea spits out its waves,
with layer after layer, cessation not a care,
yet I myself do care, although there is no point,
the storms that rush inside me,
aren't mine to calm.

And so I sit there, on a bench in Ostend,
wishing I was drunk, singing a happy Elvis-song