Dream of a seaside excursion

The smell of fresh pine cones,
scattered throughout your hair.
Concealed by the foliage,ancient bones
of hermits in despair.
A strip of sky of a veiled tender blue,
hanged on the window pane,
washed by the late spring's rain.

The briskness of the forest dome,
the crispness of the mountain air,
this wooden cabine we took as home,
unique in it's kind, without pair;
they are all lovely things,
but lose all their charm,
if we stay on this farm.

Let's go to the sea,
to plant our feet in the moving sand,
and to watch the blazing sun drown,
making the great green one red.