It was deep night and I had arrived. The rustle of the wind caressed my face and the scent of the sea intoxicated my skin. In total darkness, it was me and the moon: no one else. It was there that I began to think, to reflect on where I had come: but, above all, where I had started from.
How many runs I had made on that same shoreline that, for this night, I had returned to trample.
Because you have to do like eagles: fly high, higher than anyone, without ever forgetting your nest.
And here I began to remember all those faces that once smiled at me, that taught me so much, perhaps everything, without their noticing.
In their hands there was life and in those wrinkles I recognized the sacrifices of the countryside, the corns of hard work and the sunspots of the arid summer.
Evenings spent on the sidewalks and afternoons in front of the fireplace resurfaced in front of me: moments in which wisdom cradled you more than a mother.
We lived like this, day to day, abandoned to simplicity, in that same simplicity in which I find my roots, my nest.
But now it was dawning. I looked at the sea for the last time, greeted the fading moon and took off. Just like an eagle.