“I don’t like modern music,” he said.

“Because drum machines have no soul.”

I looked into the caramel face of this old man

he was not white or black

he was not Spanish or Indian, Middle Eastern or Asian.

His hair white with curly waves

and he had a week’s growth in his face.

His almond eyes were framed in long crows

that spoke of a thousand years

in a storytellers rhyme.

I could see a thousand years

into the history of our future.

They shed tears to the earth

and paid tribute to the ether.

We moved along the beach

and I thought I knew his name.

I remember he whispered it to me once,

but I lost it amid the comings and goings.

In his smile I saw our footprints

leading away from us on the beach.

My set small, waddling between his large,

because up until now I was just learning to walk.

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