Whoever was this tiny man
who used to run against the wind,
through the fog,
in the rain,
on snow-covered paths,
owards the sun—
away from his own shadow?

Nobody knows the truth.
Because nobody keeps clear memories,
each intent on their little deeds.

And the ground keeps no footprints
of him who ran this humble scope
for decades far and near,
adding miles to miles
enough to round the world.

The wind alone will always bear his mark—
some hardly audible swish adrift
over its continuous subdued moan.

The abandoned shadow
roaming forever
over misty plains.