Little Footprints in the Snow

They say there’s a little boy who wanders through the endless rows of green grass, past the blue lakes and rocky shores¹, and over the mountains, their peaks high in the sky. They say he has no name, and if he has one, no one knows it. He hides behind the pine trees, behind the buffalos, behind the tall shadows of men around him. His existence is like mist, like smoke that rises from the flames - there, floating through the meadows of life, yet never concrete enough to touch, to feel; constantly drifting away. All that he left behind, in the wake of his trails - the little signs of his existence, of his drifting presence - were little footprints in the snow.