In a stormy day like this, the one I was walked two metres over the street, sliding as a perfect dancer among the liquid images on the wet ground. I could touch their souls and I wonder if they reached mine. I heard our voices and I heard our laughter from somewhere high above.
We had been conquering some plot in building works. That was the last time for the dirty perfection of the cheerful troop. Hand in hand, we were climbing a sand stack, jumping planks, trampling mud, singing a mocking song. As night was hiding the shadows, the war at last was over. Someone made a flag with his sweater tied to a steak. But there was no victory, nor defeat, instead, it was about time to go back home.
Autumn had come and I can still remember the fallen leaves which, battered by the rain, looked like the rests of a wild party. The paving became a mirror to the lampposts’ yellow light. The moon’s nose appeared from time to time among the clouds. I gazed at all those things, suddenly so important and mysterious, from a new watchtower in my brain. And I knew for certain that someday I would remember, I would miss, that one I was.
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario