Malta Experience in Poetry

What I see?

Brown and yellow, green and blue.

What I smell?

People's sweat in the burning hot sun; the refreshing breathe of the sea.

What I hear?

Laughter and happy voices; loudly singing birds.

What I feel?

The strong wind striking my hair; the warm air bathing my skin.

What I think?

THIS IS MALTA!

As you see these great old temples made of stone, you will enter a mystery from long ago. Standing in the heart of it, very alone, falling, flying - where is the ground? - I don't no.

Strange people everywhere, all of them have so much hair. A voice next to me: De dung de zike pa, De dung de zike pa, ... A voice behind me: De dum dum dum, De dum dum dum, ... A choir of voices making weird noises. I'm surrounded by the sound, experiencing a ceremony, which is in the stone's memory.

The earth is dryer than dry, nobody hears the prayer for rain. The wind forces the dust with a sigh to dance in the air like a flame.

The unfriendly death is masked and appears as wind and sun, tortures the land without being asked. Wind and sun are laughing and having fun. But in this hell does live a flower. It moves its purple shiny head and looks o'er the rocks with its power. The beautiful, strong thistle is doing that.

There is life in desert-like areas and it lives by ignoring the barriers!