Summary

The gentle breath of wind that blows down from the mountains, hangs in the palm leaves, moves them barely noticeably, caresses them and plays with the last rays of sunshine and the shadows that herald the cool evening... and then, out of the imperceptible, but the all-encompassing standstill of time, beauty and silence, quite unexpectedly the crunching run between the bushes obscuring the view over hill and dale, on and on, up to the high stone wall and upon it, until at last in the sound of the surf and the clanking clash of large and small stones widens the eerie darkness of the sea, as far as the horizon and above the first stars flash, as in each of the countless nights since the beginning. (Michael Pilz)