Imprints
Another day without any trace; a man with a pick-axe
on his shoulders passed under the trees. The bicycle wheel
against the ledge; a shoe forgotten at the beach.
Two sad young donkeys on the opposite field.
When night comes the wooden stairs of the hotel,
lighted by the oil lamp, stir noiselessly in the sky
under the shoeless soles of the young forest warden.
These footprints, still damp, on the table,
on top of books and bed-sheets are from his feet.
Libros Libertad 