A map

I was washed out on the shore

In a dress embroidered by a sea foam

I was a newborn pushed out

Of an old womb, knowing

Nothing about the world beyond

There were castles of wet sand

Caressed by the touches of warm waves

From them I learned about the existence

That lasts for a day, leaving no mark

To discern its former crumbly shape

There stood mighty high dunes of grains

With no beginning and with no end

They had the wisdom of ancient magicians,

I thought, as being mighty on this shore

Must mean the greatness of times before

I plunged my arms deep into one

To draw out the knowledge needed to survive,

To see the way into the mainland’s heart

That would forever erase the detours

Born surreptitiously in me, rooted inside

The hands and fingers had sandy colour,

But no words or roads to go after

I believed there was a map, an atlas

Revealing the secrets of life’s directions,

But not life, only death had its stone inscriptions