THE CLIMB

Old men and women climb,
they do not descend —
with trembling hands,
with creaking knees.
In their pupils, a firefly
wipes away the fatigue in their chests.
Short breath in their steps.

They rush, as if they are outrunning time,
along vineyards, weeds and lavender,
closing behind them forever
the iron gates of fear.
They reach only for the peak
from which they will see the world since its creation:
rivers foaming in the race for the inlet
and the sea roaring in the fury of the wind,
ruins in the dust of silence,
the golden statues of rulers demolished.

They will see dreams in the fire
and people on their last breath —
some leaving in fear,
others satiated with life,
calmed by its beauties
and insoluble torments.

And when they reach the top,
the view from the top will be their reward:
a view that brings together the world,
and themselves,
as if they were both observers
and protagonists of their own film.