I advance slowly
Under a crushing sun
My feet, heavier with each step,
Tirelessly sink
Into the liquid sand.
And I see only fields covered with snow
Only happy Sunday mornings
In my fresh and splendid mountains.
The old lady told me one day
That happiness is in the movement
In the fluidity between two stages, two states
And nowhere else.
In front of me, always, my childhood
The air loaded with salt, carried by the wind
These thousands of sparks in the water
These thousands of elusive thoughts
And the sound of the pebbles churned by the waves
Which will rock me until infinity.