Fingers of the breeze.
The time has come to flyaway
In mind and spirt to another land
Where should I go In curiosity?
So many places that come in my head
I'll go to a place with soft sand!
Or shall I go to the ice and snow?
No. I'll go to the warm beach
Where the soft fingers of the breeze
Plays on my tanned cheeks and in my
My dark tangled curly locks
I can hear the waves smell the salty sea
Waiting to leave enthusiastically .