A final step for the barefoot

Searching for the history of the old barefoot, pioneers of the margins, those who drink their cup with debt until the end of the month or life, those postponed more than their bills, their voices paint the ceiling of the sky, and they are embarrassed by the cinema's inability to understand the shift of tree shadows to their trunks, from the stretch of time between their shoulders until sighs were lost in their chests, truly trying to scatter their history as ash as fertilizer for the land, so trees wrote them, those reconciled with the winds without evidence, or navigation system, those who understand the instinct of ships before reaching, from the path receding from their steps until the shame of wandering appeared, listeners to the void; their only song, they drank the distances until the roads overflowed from their feet, here their socks are witnesses to themselves, when they lift them, new roads extend, and when they soak them in water, they refuse but to float infected with the disease of the bridges they crossed.