Shore poem

The shore was where they met at the end of the day, before the tide was high. There they would listen to the waves, feel the warmth of the last rays of the sun, before going for a last swim, naked, feeling the glory of the ocean and the joy of their youth. They would then take the time to dry their skin, alone on the deserted beach.

They would worship the dying sun, as it sunk into the violet and gold of the horizon: a breathtaking show that was prelude to their night, their love, their forgetfulness.

Through the summer they came, every evening, a repeated prayer to what they knew was no eternity. They both loved the end of summer feeling, when the nights were cooler, the dawns redder, the skies bluer: yet they bot knew the end was near, for the summer would die, and their relationship. Everything, away from the shore, was an obstacle, their work, their families, their friends.

They all said it: you are not made for each other. Finally they accepted it, despite the evidence, the way they felt, the way they knew: this fragile spark of a summer would never return. So it was they accepted their fate, like the tide their love would withdraw, leaving the bitterness of a lost childhood.

Sunset at low tide

Years later, now rich and stupid, he came back to the shore, still deserted in the evening, children and parents wisely sitting at the dinner table in the village. He walked along the edge, her eyes, her smile, her narrow shoulders filling his mind with pictures he could not forget. He waited for the sunset, sitting on the sand, observing the small crabs running from the water, as they had done, together, so long ago. He could not return, he could not go back, roll the waves to where they were, then, to that golden day when he held her hand in his. He felt empty, useless, a pale shadow of what he could have been, with her.

Darkness came, he could hear only the sound of the waves in the silence.

He was a busy man now, his mind full of futile projects, of ways to get even richer, of all the reasons to soon collapse in his stupidity. He hated the way it had all gone, the way they had both given up for the sake of others. It was pathetic. Futility was his life, the luxury, the wine bars, the idiotic girls, a life of parasites. None of this was productive: the real work, the real creative activities were elsewhere. He felt a profound disgust at what he had become.

Peaceful waves

He sought solace in reading, about what others had written in what were perhaps similar predicaments, in their time. The prophets of doom in the nineteenth century, the great Russian novels. To escape despair he cut down alcohol, took to exercising energetically every day. He lost weight, started dressing soberly. Sadly he was still making money as if there were no tomorrow, and indeed there was not. Was there still time to learn a real craft? To become useful at something, for someone? He took a night job at the Samaritans, after all he spent most of his daytime on the phone, the arbitrage you know…

Return to the shore

Gradually, he reached a solitary resolution to redeem himself: resigning from his job and engaging in meaningful labor. He successfully accomplished this by taking up humble yet valuable positions within hospitals. Having amassed sufficient wealth to sustain himself for the remainder of his life, he harbored a deep-seated fear of idleness. Thus, he bid farewell to the foolish young women, leaving his colleagues under the impression that he had succumbed to insanity. Without hesitation, he sold his opulent mansion and luxurious Jaguar, acquiring instead a modest abode situated in the eastern region of the city, along with a humble bicycle.

He started writing, during his shifts, in the morning, when he came back from work. He resumed praying, although he had not done so this since childhood. He resolved to write their story:

“The shore was where they met at the end of the day, before the tide was high …”

Picture: Chinese God of Wealth