Misaki, the sun. ®. (English Version)
Misaki was a poet who lived alone, set apart from the world, yet within the city. When he went for walks, he felt as if he were treading through strange places. The world seemed more and more distant to him. People were like aimless phantoms, their voices the echoes of a forgotten language. He, in turn, was an island floating in a sea of asphalt and concrete. His words were the only lighthouses to guide him.
Misaki, despite the serious problems stemming from his condition and others that arose later, had never lost the will to sketch a verse. Each challenge was a river of ink that flowed toward his pen. Sleepless nights were a blank canvas for stanzas heavy with melancholy. Sadness, a paintbrush that colored his metaphors with gray tones.
One morning, lacking in spirit but with great strength of will, he went to the beach for a walk. It was late summer. The tide was rising, but there was still space to walk near the shore, where Misaki placed his feet and, not without first kneeling, wet his hands in a sacred homage to the sea.
Misaki continued his walk. There were few people on the beach, as it was very early and he had always liked to wake up at dawn. He kept walking with the water at his ankles, observing what remained of the landscape that he, in other times, had contemplated differently.
Misaki saw the light, the sun’s reflections on the sea, the small waves. And suddenly he realized, or came to the conclusion, that he no longer belonged to that world. Although Misaki had been raised by the sea and his ancestors were connected to it, he felt he was about to leave. He pulsed with the sun’s rays.
He sat on the shore and wet his hands again. He made a sacred gesture, and a ray of sun entered his body completely. Misaki disappeared and the sun became a verse.
END
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