From the poet's diary

A day bathed in tears of rain, marked by the bitter gaze of clouds, tossed in all directions by the fury of the wind. A day without sun or rays of hope. A day like one of those that come and go like a nightmare. Days that appear suddenly and from nowhere, only to perish in the depths of eternity. A day like the one when she left, and with her everything that was and will be, everything that had meaning and was meaning.

Such days are too difficult for a poet, too difficult for a dead master whose genius had not yet had time to shine when the music fell silent.

Poetry taught him to love and be loved. It showed him how to dream and fulfill dreams. How to think with the heart and trust experience. In the sunbeam and the rustle of the wind, in the blue sky and the crisp air, she revealed the world and herself, and she was in the world and the world was in her. Invisible to sight and incomprehensible to the mind, sown deep in the heart and growing in the soul, it was life and gave life.

Until those came who muddied the roar of the sea and limited the majesty of the setting sun. They dispelled the fog of longing and extinguished the stars of hope. Those came whose speech changed from simple to intricate, from beautiful to ugly. They exchanged the depth of majesty and the sublimity of words, the nobility of deeds and the delicacy of thought for the universality of form and the expressiveness of writing, for the primacy of reason and the lack of faith.

This was too difficult for the poet, too difficult for the dead master, whose poetry had no beginning or end, which endured within him, and he endured within it.

The storm came, and with it the wind, which turned a page in the history of the world and then extinguished the last spark of hope, the last flame in the poet's heart. And the world returned to its normal course, time continued to flow from its dark beginnings toward unknown destinations. Everything looked the same, unchanged. Only the poet was occasionally overcome by strange feelings. He felt his heart pound as he listened to the roar of the sea, a tear welled in his eye as he gazed upon the nostalgic stains of ancient images, a strange longing gripped him as he touched old parchments bearing the thoughts of his ancestors. He felt lost, as if he had lost a part of himself, a spark that gave life meaning, that propelled him forward. Sometimes he heard the echo of a song from the past in the distance, saw the outline of unknown figures through the mist. Sometimes he was overcome by the desire to start dreaming, to escape from all he knew and disliked, to let himself be swept away by the current of reflection and float with the music of his thoughts, somewhere far away, to islands he saw in the distance, to a sound he heard but whose source he could not discern. Yet he pushed these visions aside, trying not to think about them, because he didn't want to stand out, to be different from everyone else. It was too difficult for the poet.

***

The bells tolled, announcing the hour of fate. He rose and set off before the last star faded from the sky and the sun emerged from behind the horizon.

Then it was time.

He left behind only a short letter and simple words of farewell. He took his memories and hope. He set out and looked back only once, to what he was leaving behind, the past, himself. He set out to feel the call of victory and swallow the bitterness of defeat, to carry the heavy cross of faith and write a chronicle of life. He left because he was aware of the passing of time and saw how the world shrinks in the blink of an eye, and with it, humanity shrinks. He felt there was no room left for him, for the poet. He knew that what he sought was within him, buried in the ashes of time, covered by a zone of shadow.

***

He walked, but his strength was failing; he could go no further. He couldn't endure. With each step, he discovered the meaninglessness of his own existence, immersed in this journey like a sea wave crashing on rocks. He asked about the struggles and suffering. He looked up, searching for guidance, and the black sheet of sky hid the last star of hope. What was he supposed to believe in as he turned another page of the book of life, its contents blurring before his eyes. And meaning, like individual letters, scattered to the four corners of the world.

And he was left alone, between the beginning and the end, between what was and what was to come. What was he supposed to be guided by when faith, the strength to live and endure, became a burden he couldn't bear?

***

The lonely boat faded against the sea, vanishing into the mist beyond the horizon. He sat on the sandy shore and stared ahead. As if searching for an answer: had the journey just begun or was it drawing to a close? Was this life blossoming in the heart's blossom, or was death slowly approaching? He felt the same desire that had compelled him to set out, saw the same signs that guided him to his destination. Here, where life and death, beginning and end, intertwined as they had since the dawn of time.

She returned to the place where destinies were once marked for successive generations. And with it everything that was, is and will be, everything that had meaning and was meaning.