The man who loved fate
lost his dream, yes—
it was stolen from him.
So, one morning at dawn,
he got up and put his boots on.
“Goodbye, my heart,” he said,
“I must leave to search for my dream.”
Then he walked out the door,
and from that moment on,
his name became legend,
a tale good for lore.
Towards the horizon, he moved his tireless steps,
towards cities where demons and saints
fight in the name of gods
with millions of names.
During his long and restless journey,
one memory alone enveloped his soul,
shielding it from all evil,
from knowing that truly, he was alone.
That memory of a long-lost summer,
when stars shone the brightest
on a night that was the darkest.
He carries those kisses wherever he goes,
buried deep in his traveling bag;
they are his most-prized possession,
the most beautiful thing
he ever had.
And sometimes,
when night falls over the land,
the man who loved fate
crouches in his sleeping bag
and dreams—
he dreams to meet her again.
by Jason R. Forbus
Beautiful poem. Writing with only imagination or out of own experience?
RispondiEliminaTime in poetry differs from time as we generally perceive it. This poem is the ancestral memory of a summer - so dim and yet beautiful is its memory as I walk the winding path, that at times I find myself shedding a tear without knowing why.
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