Echoes Beneath His Steps

Source

What I See

I see a figure moving slow, not rushing like most people do, more like drifting on a road that doesn’t end. The back is turned, so no face, just the body shape outlined by sunlight that keeps bending around him like it wants to touch him. The road shines in spots, gravel or maybe tar, hard to tell from this far. Shadows stretch beside him and behind him, twisting longer than his own body, like umbra alive. The whole scene feels painted with light and dust, soft and sharp at the same time. Trees on the edge hold their silence, branches leaning inward as if they also watch.

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What I Feel

It puts me in a mood I can’t hold with one word. Calm yes, but not only calm. It’s like there’s weight pressing down but also wings lifting off. I feel the sense of leaving something behind, but not running from it either. It whispers tempus fugit in my head, the way time doesn’t wait for him but walks with him, side by side. I think of farewell, I also think of journeys, And definitely think of how roads never really stop, they just bend until you don’t see the end no more. There’s a silence, but the silence is not empty. More like a secret kept very safe. My chest feels soft ache and quiet peace mixed strange together.

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Story-Poem: Iter Solitarius

He moves slow, steady, not stumbling.
His feet pressing down small stones,
and the stones remember him even if no one else does.
The sound, faint but there,
echoes beneath his steps.

Every step hums a little note.
A song not written, not sung by lips, only heard by dust.
He does not look back.
The crown of silver light rests on him,
sun melting low, kissing hair with soft fire.
It almost tricks the eyes,
like a halo that doesn’t belong to saints but to wanderers.

I wonder if he lost something,
or if he carries too much and has to walk it out.
Silentium follows,
but this silence isn’t empty—it breathes.
It walks with him like an old companion.

The road doesn’t speak in words,
but it knows how to keep memory.
So many footsteps before,
so many after.
Now it takes his weight,
folds it into its long story,
keeps it safe under gravel and dust.

Sometimes I think the world doesn’t move,
it only lets us walk across it.
And he, this lone figure,
is proof of that thought.

He’s not running,
not even arriving.
Just walking.
As if the horizon whispers veni—come.
Lux et umbra, light and shadow,
follow quietly like dogs at heel.

There is no hurry in him.
No need to shout.
His silence is enough,
louder than words.

Maybe he left without farewell.
Maybe the people behind him don’t even notice yet.
But the road notices.
And the sky notices.
Even I, though far away,
notice.

His figure grows smaller.
Not gone, but dissolving slowly.
Like water poured into water.
At first clear, then only ripples.
Then only memory.

But the road keeps the sound.
Yes, it does.
The echoes beneath his steps,
they linger longer than he does.
That’s how he becomes part of the way.
Not erased,
just absorbed.

Iter ad infinitum—a journey without end.
The line where earth meets sky hides him,
but I know he is there,
walking still,
where my eyes cannot reach.

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Reflection

Watching him makes me wonder about myself.
How many roads have I left without turning?
How many silences have followed me like shadows?
I remember times when I walked just to walk,
not to reach a door, not to touch a destination,
only to feel the world beneath my feet.
Vita brevis—life short.
But the steps we leave behind,
they stretch farther than our bodies ever do.

And maybe, like him,
we are not meant to stop.
Not yet.
Maybe we are meant to fade slowly
into roads that know our weight better than people do.
Into horizons that promise nothing but still call our names.

So I watch him vanish,
and inside me I carry both ache and peace.
Because though he is gone from sight,
his journey has not ended.
And the echoes—
the echoes stay.

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Cc,
@hive-166850