a white path could turn
the mutant's dream to reality
yet his fluid face without frown
unmends the grey mood

left by the footprints of polar pilgrims
in search for signs of evasions
he resisted to lead, to follow
their silent reign

there is but one day to spare
when she reaches him
like an ice flower unfolding
next to a window seat

all those roads are people, she tells,
temples of thought to be walked
like bridges, like tunnels
underneath the surface of civilization

like shrimp caught by whales
in the darkness of the ocean
too tiny to be noticed
yet essential for the system

the next day, he's gone
leaving but a note on his desk
that accidentally
went unnoticed  
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