Trails of a past

Through the meandering lines that escape from me and return to me, in each exhalation, I am the only witness of my existence. The smoke is the faithful reflection of a sacred act of meditation. With it I furrow time, approaching no time, through it I return to the hidden places that are hidden from my lucid gaze. Asleep, knowledge escapes from my magnifying glass, but the symbolic remains behind. In the air, like glass birds, flutter the thoughts and desires of a better life, eagerly waiting to collide face to face with my face, just around the corner.