I wonder where the boat docked,

if it managed to berth at some point

to look at the horizon

and add new lines with

the sharp point of the mast.

 

I wonder how many seas the boat

managed to go across

or if it even found that ocean of utopians

on its misty way looking for new lands to explore

in the infinite spiral of the twistling waves.

 

I wonder how many dawns and sunset

were testimony of the journey

of a lonely boat without a sailor

with no woman or man to blow air from their lungs

into the wings of the sails.

 

Only have I dared now to look through the window,

waiting for the boat to come back,

expecting to see a perfect curved outline

against the canvas of the wind.

 

I have waited so long,

but now my only aim is looking face to face,

confronting that hull of mine

and with the hammer of my fist,

carving again from zero

and becoming shipyard and sailor at the same time.

For me to sail and fly.

Closer.

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