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Is this city still mine?

For the wanderer who rounds the cape of plentitude and discovers shadows and the venomous sting of memory, there is but one recourse: the dignity of being mortal.

For the city that is pained by its scars and remembers other worlds in its own land, there is but one road: the dignity of being transient.

And you, metaphor that survives in the wave of the forest, place of desire and melancholy, have pity on the silver fish that dies in the dry hardness of the cobblestones; have pity on the frightened eyes that watch you from a distance. Have pity, because the wanderer knows he is condemned to be a foreigner in his own desire, in his own city.