Fleeting furrows, vestiges of you and me, in the sand.
Live hair that, in the light of day, flickers olivine between black curves. Sometimes they are long hair and other times just hair from old braids.
How long must our ephemeral footsteps last? Is it true that when the breeze still laughs our laughter the waves will have reduced us to absence?
I have by the way that the jable remembers.
Every time I return I do not arrive because the tide, high and raging, jealous guardian of the secret of our trail, fights the reminiscence of what we create. Other times I pass by looking far away for the footprints that whisper to me, pulling, pulling but not bringing me closer.
This land that tickles, from time to time, flies and blows me a game with my feet dressing your footsteps.
How long does a footprint in the sand last when the sea drags, smooths, cleans and condemns but the imprint remains?
