Where has that magician gone who enriched my box of dreams?
The one that became like me when my tiny being hid within his arms.
That magnificent architect of my daydreams that never spoke to me of freedom
but knew how to respect every single atom of my childhood.

Where shalt be that child dressed up with wrinkles
and grey hair that when night came lighten up the beacons in his eyes
and touched the strings of my soul until making me dance between my own hesitations.
That old smiling man that did not mind my dirty hands or my running nose and whose frail caresses where by far my best gifts.

Where might the old witty man be gone that when they came to bury him,
remained silent for ever and from this silence made the most pure and eternal melody.

Could he not be in a corner of my soul awaiting for that day when I straightened the steps inside of me?
or, is it that God took him because he also needed him?