The Dead Towns Of Kola

Delicately venturing upon the rock of the old streets, the old breeze thundered from the ocean, bringing rebuffing whirlwinds sand and rock from the sea shores far away. Prairies encompass what was a flourishing town loaded with life, presently dead with not a spirit around, the land recovered naturally, and frightened by the perpetual skeletons of antiquated structures without a reason. The old base is still there, with high dividers and solid dugouts snickering menacingly even with nature, its huge firearms solidified in rust, despite everything looking out to the ocean, holding back to safeguard against the individuals who never showed up in the ever tireless, seething breeze. A shadow moves quickly out yonder, a little rabbit speeding through the grass, jabbing its nose up and sniffing the air, checking the salty breeze for perils. Frightened by a little feathered creature over head, it shoots off running against the irate breezes, past the old structures, along the abandoned avenues. The indications of the old shops glare down onto the road their windows desolated by splits and infected by time, remaining in straight examples like an exhibition of gloom, long delicate branches crashing against them in the ever persevering, seething breeze. Delicately skimming down, a bit of paint arrives on the table inside the relinquished ranch house, this huge structure once home to the ages of family who lived here, presently involved by the ages of animals abandoned. Another blast blows in brutally and violently shaking the old fashioned structure, constraining residue from the bars in the rooftop, a solitary shingle taken from the rooftop by the ever determined, seething breeze. Strolling towards the maritime bases of the sea shore, the sights flabbergast, the assortments of boats dissipated upon the sands, consistently biting the dust in the destroying salt waves. The vessels of the business left to decay among the stones and the ever tenacious, seething breeze. Violently shaking the chains on the doors the breeze stops for some time, simply enough time for the boisterous accident of an angling crane to tumble from its vessel and fill the air with its reverberating blast, this is immediately supplanted with the hints of the ever persistent, seething breeze. The incredible white sands on the sea shore appear differently in relation to the dark red grass of the rises, their typical green edges harmed by the red rust of the withering boats in the cove. A little pair of pointed ears springs up distending from the harmed plants. The bunny has returned this time brushing upon the rust red plants from the small town and the ever tenacious, seething breeze. Standing tall with the unforgiving dim fortification, a solitary banner despite everything flies among the torn smidgens of others, its dark red hues standing battered from its 20 years of segregation, guarding over its post with its single red star, its sledge, its sickle, respecting the unified country that overlooked it, despite everything bearing its badge. Further into the base through the fallen chain doors lies a grounded submarine, half indented into the black-top ground, a remembrance to those lost in a war overlooked, recovered by natures infiltrating grass, and tree's blowing with the old banner, in the ever steady seething breeze.