when everybody sings at night

This is a time of boat trailers rattling by on my cobblestoned street.

This is a time when it's impossible to sleep because the nights are too white and because everyone sings: drunk men in the streets, partying neighbours, the birds, yourself.

It's a time for t-shirts and sunscreen, and for wool cardigans and thick socks. For the mad Walpurgis night. For cold picknicks on foreign strawberries and homemade mead with raisins. For lounging on beaches where the sun is hot, ice floes are melting on the water and sea smoke sends chilly vapours to the shore.

It's a time for dust in the city and mud in the country.