There are seven spirals leading to the mountain overseeing the ancient untraveled road on the other side of our island.

You took me there on a deserted Sunday morning, while our steps hummed the hymn of wilderness under our pens.

The heavy bells of the white churches sent their echoes to us on the wings of the old seagulls who flew above us in complicity.

When we reached the peak where the road turned into purple sand under our feet,

You said that there was one more story I needed to hear before walking to the forbidden hidden city built on the cliffs whose keys to its gates you had kept buried deep under the cellar of our white house.

The sand stuck to my skin as I laid in silence and listened to your words, they formed the feathers of a fallen angel on my back and we got a little bit older as we cried and laughed and learned with the end, as you always did.

After you kissed me, one kiss for each of my years, you pushed the clouds aside and showed me the sights of the thousands of years and kings who had come before us and left their treasures on the altars of the city whose gates could only be opened with the truth.

We walked on those fragile steps and stood above the sky drowning into the blue waters,

You took out a secret map and showed me the way not known to those who walked the spirals without purpose, without searching for meaning, for words, those who walked their days without a desperate love for freedom,

Like we always did.

We sat above the waves and shapes And waited for the night to cover us before taking the long road into the stars.

We reaches the fortress and you showed me the altar you had built for me, on those late nights you walked in the mountain by yourself and I waited for you with the cold warm breeze of my solitude.

You asked me to put a stone up for each of my loves.

Time descended on my shoulders as I went back into my journeys and happiness and sorrows next to the altar facing the eternal sunrise.

We sat with the Moon and talked in short stories like short prayers, one for each stone,

A smile and a tear for each,

The ones who were gone, the ones who had stayed and the ones who had brought me there on the highest peak of the oldest mountain of Atlantis, over the bluest of waters and our roof,

Into your arms which, when we started walking back, as the sun was rising,

Turned me around and bathed me in the heat of the whispers of my loves and stories who had built me.

I looked at them and held you close

The last of my stones of my new life,

And I cried and laughed and learned with this end, as I always did.

“All of them were lord”

M.

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