they are the gentle touches of strangers passing by and smiling at your heart.
they are the footprints of worn-out boots leaving unavoidable marks on wet sand, over the slick rock, on that undefined path.
it is the tenderness in the eyes of a child whose fingers envelop your hand as a blanket of wonder. The same eyes which attempt to swallow the world in its wholeness, for there is only magic to be seen.
they are the cracks wide open for the warm golden to get in and simmer for a while. Only for a while.
it is the ancestral and immemorial flavour of a land as ancient as humanity; in its bowels, millions of strides to be withheld and every single throb enshrines the shudder of a life.
it is the sound of tiny feet rushing and hurring and scrambling and dropping and tumbling down and, finally, picking themselves up again, with the same candor of a deep breath.
they are the slumbers fading because of a wild and fierce weeping, seeping through your veins until your blood starts pumping swiflty and vigorously, painting your eyesight purple-red.
they are childhood thoughts imploring warmth, fondness and a loving hand on the forehead.
they are the invisible sensations soaking the surrounding air, penetrating the pores of my skin, brewing the flaming perceptions, spilling over words from the tip of my fingers.