Alla Scarrupata

The tragic present is gone. I no longer know who I am. My eyes cast to the round stones on the shore, looking for a foothold. The sea is a watercolor. It paints the bay. It is slow, still. No, it moves. I had never come there without my companion solitude.
The bow cutting through the water fills the void. The landing hints at a greeting. The green approaches with the typical scent of celebration. It speaks to me. It tells me about when I was a child and came with my parents. Meanwhile, I continue not knowing who I am.