And me… I travel the old roads again and again, wearing a different life.

In the quiet of dawn, when the world still slumbers, I become a wanderer. The ancient paths, etched by time and memory, beckon me. Each step is a whisper—a conversation with the ghosts of yesteryears.

The cobblestones remember my footfalls, though they’ve crumbled and shifted. The gnarled oaks stretch their branches, as if reaching for secrets hidden in their leaves. The sun, rising like a golden lantern, casts shadows that dance with forgotten tales.

I wear different skins—sometimes a weary traveler, sometimes a starry-eyed dreamer. My heart, a nomad’s compass, seeks solace in the familiar bends of the road. The seasons change, but the road remains—a faithful companion.

The old inn, its timeworn sign swinging in the breeze, welcomes me. The fire crackles, and the hearth tells stories of travelers long gone. Their laughter, their tears—they linger in the air, woven into the very fabric of this place.

And the people? Ah, the people! Faces weathered by sun and storm, eyes that have witnessed both miracles and heartaches. They nod as I pass, recognizing the echo of my footsteps. They, too, have worn different lives—the blacksmith, the seamstress, the child who grew into wisdom.

Sometimes, I pause by the river. Its silver ribbon unwinds through valleys and memories. I dip my fingers, feeling the pulse of ages. The water knows my secrets—the ones I’ve whispered to the moon, the ones I’ve buried in the folds of time.

Why do I return? Perhaps it’s the ache of nostalgia—the longing for what was and what could be. Or maybe it’s the promise of renewal—the chance to shed old skin, to become someone new.

And so, I journey—the old roads, the winding trails. Each step, a pilgrimage, each encounter, a revelation. The seasons change, but I remain—a wanderer, a seeker, a collector of stories.

And me… I travel the old roads again and again, wearing a different life.

Copyright © Beatriz Esmer