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. Fields encompass what was a flourishing town brimming with life, presently dead with not a spirit around, the land recovered naturally, and terrified by the changeless skeletons of old structures without a reason. The old base is still there, with high dividers and solid fortifications chuckling menacingly notwithstanding nature, its huge firearms solidified in rust, despite everything looking out to the ocean, standing by to safeguard against the individuals who never showed up in the ever steady, seething breeze. A shadow moves quickly out yonder, a little bunny speeding through the grass, jabbing its nose up and sniffing the air, checking the salty breeze for threats. Surprised by a little flying creature over head, it shoots off running against the enraged breezes, past the old structures, along the abandoned boulevards. The indications of the old shops glare down onto the road their windows attacked by breaks and infected by time, remaining in straight examples like a display of despondency, long delicate branches crashing against them in the ever determined, seething breeze. Tenderly gliding down, a bit of paint arrives on the table inside the deserted 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 savagely and violently shaking the classical structure, compelling residue from the shafts 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 groups of boats dispersed upon the sands, consistently passing on in the disassembling salt waves. The pontoons of the business left to decay among the stones and the ever steady, seething breeze. Violently shaking the chains on the entryways the breeze stops for some time, simply enough time for the uproarious accident of an angling crane to tumble from its pontoon and fill the air with its resounding blast, this is immediately supplanted with the hints of the ever tireless, seething breeze. The extraordinary white sands on the sea shore appear differently in relation to the dark red grass of the hills, their typical green cutting edges harmed by the red rust of the perishing ships in the narrows. A little pair of pointed ears springs up distending from the harmed plants. The bunny has returned this time touching upon the rust red plants from the little town and the ever determined, seething breeze. Standing tall with the brutal dark stronghold, a solitary banner despite everything flies among the torn smidgens of others, its crimson hues standing battered from its 20 years of detachment, guarding over its post with its single red star, its mallet, its sickle, regarding the assembled country that overlooked it, despite everything bearing its symbol. Further into the base through the fallen chain entryways 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.