LEANDRO walks

In his veins,

they ran badly healed tears,

of a love, a great love,

that never opened its doors,

and in the most real of worlds,

where the prayers without faith,

they pile up,

Like flies on shit,

He could write his best notes.

From the power of knowledge,

to know that he could,

the euphoria woke him one morning,

and without getting lost in time,

crossed with his finger a white line,

precise between the art and the part,

to walk on tiptoe,

and put your balance to the test.

From here to beyond,

on his peculiar trip lightning,

he found life,

in the heart of the stones,

wings in the messy,

and even a kite with no tail,

flying without fear over the ocean.

He knew that his strength was reaching him,

and had a sweet madness,

as to start a dream,

some outstanding accounts,

and even the utopia of finding,

that love,

that great love always elusive.

The paradox was,

that although he could never find it,

loved how much love was presented to him,

and of all rescued something beautiful,

and discovered with a serene smile,

that his great love was to love.