There wasn’t a light he was unable to find.
He searched for her along the way,
looking among the foliage of trees
and rummaging through the undergrowth.
Like a curious child, he looked under every stone
and dunked his head into every stream.
Sometimes he interrogated the eyes of men and beasts;
other times, he contented himself
with seeing her lying on the road before him.
Loyal friend to him and his steps,
the light with her thousand dresses
accompanied him from the early dawn
to the burning sunset.
And when evening came, still she wove in the sky,
passing the needle through it
as many times as the stars that could be counted
in the firmament.
It seemed to the wayfarer
that each one of them was a poem
that had been begun but never finished—
a bit like those dreams we believe at night
that disappear upon awakening.
And at the dawning of every sun,
he reopened his eyes,
already looking for a new light.
by Jason R. Forbus
What I got from this, is the essence of human restlessness. For men, they always search for something more exciting once they tire what they have.
RispondiEliminaI might be mistaken.
Hum... me, I love to see light in its million hues, each hue seems to have a life and a name of its own. Giving them names is a fascinating thing to do: somehow, I try to humanize what cannot and should not be made human.
RispondiEliminaIn regards to your comment, it might as well be that men are easy to tire of something: it is in our curious nature to look beyond the horizon and search new things. However, searching new things does not always mean abandoning the old ones. I like to think that old friends and ideas simply assume a different significance, and by saying this I don't mean that they become less important.
Actually, I believe that what stays with us throughout our journey and experiences - no matter the odds and the circumstances - is what ultimately defines who we are.