The wind always has its own way, without asking anyone if it is right. The clouds follow it without questioning its sanity or its will.
The Moon that we think is sunken in solitude has its own direction, but it is always followed silently by the sea. The sea, crushed by the Moon’s sadness, soothes its waves and grows and retreats sending messages in its own Morse language.
The ships follow the sea’s direction, without questioning its selfless love, without minding that they are part of a game of unheard messages. The shells carry the sea’s tears of lonely love, hoping that the humans, the ones that are able to travel to the Moon, will deliver them.
The leaves sway in the wind’s direction, they listen to its musical stories, its promises of a different world where the stars fall from the sky in the form of cold and glittery crystals, crystals that melt saddened by the world’s perpetual tragedy. Hearing this, they develop colours of hope and they foolishly fall thinking that the wind will take them away with him. But the wind only alleviates their descent, embracing them in a soft and untroubled death.
The heavy silence of being followed, but never reached; the responsibility of guiding; the beauty of selflessness, both yours and of the ones that step behind you; the wisdom of losing and not looking back: all an invisible crown of mercury, a poison of gifts.
The wind holds my hand while going in the opposite direction; it increases its power trying to enchant me to join him. But no, I am just like you: lone armour of rusty steel, protecting stories, carrying steps in my eardrums with pride.