to trot the air..

When I bestride him, I soar,
I am a hawk: he trots the air;
the earth sings when he touches it;
the basest horn of his hoof is more musical
than the pipe of Hermes.

~William Shakespeare, Henry V

maybe..

I was taking a photo of the window.. and someone appeared taking the photo of who knows whose soul..
The photo of a photo.. the soul taking a soul.. taking a soul…
I wondered, without an answer.
Like at the insomnia nights…
Like the endless remembrances that appear, as hidden thieves, and instead of stealing they give us a present: a feeling of melancholy..
For the times deeply lived and gone but also for the times to come.. maybe.
And that “maybe” makes the whole difference…