There are moments when they fall asleep as if they had a shell and little by little they go off between wind and tide.
They are the arms that change paths to make way for other steps, which can no longer wake up from the tracks that rained on the horizon.
Rivers always run in the same direction, with more force or less water flow, but our members must gradually let go of the storms that once took pity on our willpower.
The hands that once dug deep into the sand, now only caress the wind as if trying to catch time.
The Moon returned to hide the rays of the sun, to have breakfast with the horizon on fire, to caress her naked back among the footprints that huddled in the shelter of the wind, dawning between sharp stones, which cut the paths of tears, until the steps were banished. who woke up with the fire at their feet.
While a rain of white sheets was undressing, the horizon wrote with its fingers between the skin that still breathed deeply, by the branches that drowned in the freezing dawn ...