The whistle of the siren
There was an open-minded woman sitting on the dock of life waiting for the steamboat of her destiny. When it passed, a fine-looking sailor was cutting through the sea, his face keeping course and his hands in his pockets giving him a firm ground. Through the white of the uniform the sea immediately became blacker and deeper like the most indelible truths. He too matched his train of thought with the wind so they met mid-way, suspended in the night between the sky and the sea. 
The bell of unexpected encounters rang for everyone or just for some people, the fact remains that that night the siren of the steamboat let out a long sound, covering up the silence of the stars.
Many hours of caresses and misunderstandings passed, and the echo of the siren still held them. One evening the sailor, tarnished with too much love, wanted to kick the stars and cry a little. But he couldn’t, the stars were somewhere else and he couldn’t cry on command, so he let the storm calm down like he had been taught. Every so often he glanced at the flag and when he found himself absorbed in the sound of the tears in the canvas, he was tired and shivering. The night passed, cold and noisy, and he glided over it.