The construction
They labour on
Will become, one day
A building.

The earth
That they tend to
So religiously
Will be a blooming garden.

Whether herbs or flowers
Skyscrapers or cozy cottage
They will in the end
Have something to cherish.

And I
Take my journey
And I
See their work
And I
Look back and
Am not even able
To retrace
My own footsteps.

And they
Will be able
To dwell in their houses
And eat the fruits
Of their own labours.

And I
Will have memories
Which will
Gradually
Fade.

I am aware of that
And so
Frantically
I write my journeys down
Incomplete
Unwhole.

Because by the time I reach my destiny
My exquisite memory
Will too
Fail me.