They leap from the mountain and come to me with the first ray of sunshine, the first reflection, the first wind, his face, their faces and smiles in my eyes.
Every morning they return and in sleeps they whisper to me the new day and hold back the ephemeral moths that shine in the dawn, holding the light imprinted in the retina with it which illuminates me to the distant and miraculous tomorrow.
But sometimes she’s locked in black petals and I’m looking for you, all of you in silence friend because I’m a stranger in a stranger land, I follow your dust raised on our invisible battlefield to reign the gordian knot of our existence and fight together, our unknowable private matter that binds us from the dawn of time, which comes back and rises with the first ray of light I drink with the sleepy soul and light before ridding me to break down the crest to the desperate search for you and myself.
Even though I know it’s crazy and lost in departure, but it’s my only and only way, a desperate run with broken breasts, sandy eyes and cheeks ripe and secate to be, live and survive.
No fear, me or rule, only hugs and compassion, until the end of the race however go,
usque at finem, for the whole crystallized and immobile time of the damned. Because they do not live the death of men but perennially revive the death of those who could not or could save, but can only rest at the top of the mountain when with a bit of luck they will all come together.