Page 61 - The_Lizard
P. 61
To dad.
The writer sat in front of the sea, sensing that the peace which settled in
every single delicious movement of water droplets, united in ferocious
waves breaking on rocks, was the same peace he felt in the green hills
which so long-ago counted his footprints.
He had left his Borges books in the car, he did not need them any
longer, because he already had the verses tattooed in his mind.
Restless eyes, tireless hands, creator of dreams, chaotic voice; these
parts that formed his essence, he a painted a canvas with a lost gaze in the
horizon.
The sun was setting at the edges, making way for the twilight; he had to
return to his three moons: to read stories to an artist, to rub a singer’s
back and kiss a graceful teacher.
He arrived the noisy city with a black bag in his right hand, letters
written in poetry in his left and a heart ready to create.
Far beyond the industries of the city, he imagined the mountains of
his youth, the distant voice of his mother like the breeze through man-
go trees and the laughter of his brothers running like the current in the
streams.
The writer understood that existence is not only the path, but the
way to walk it.
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