Down the road, I go with my staff,
feet pressing the ground where many have passed.
Who was the first? Who will be the last?
I imagine their faces, I imagine their laughs
I imagine their life stories with each of my strides.
As the forest declares its presence, the road grows thin.
Now are not only human footprints the ones that spring within.
I smell water, stone, I smell bark and leaves.
I see a green-covered sky where the stars are light beams.
The path ever more narrow, soil that has met fewer feet.
The last corridor is a one-man passage enclosed by the trees.
As I venture to the open, the sun warms my skin.
I find myself stranded in a made of grass sea.
Is this the end, I question? I see no path ahead.
I only see grass dancing unbent by the herd.
I place my chin in my staff, I look backward and tilt my head.
and although I’m nervous I take a step ahead.
Author Notes: What did this poem make you think about?
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Chile • 35 years old