He slowly faded in the spring,
when music was no longer cheer,
and weary legs could no more bring
a gentle rest to soul so dear.
He dwindled like a candle’s flame,
its fragile wick worn thin with time,
while drifting from life’s woven frame,
he left a thread, a silent rhyme.
His honey-brown and tender eyes,
entwined with his serene, soft smile,
declared his journey reached its skies,
and showed the path, unhurried, while.
He gave us time to understand
that every lovely life once known
still holds a path, a guiding hand,
though some may miss the way he’s gone.
He crossed his hands in quiet prayer,
as if in sleep, so calm, so mild,
his body turned to song and air,
his life—a concert, pure and styled.
His smile went dim in spring’s embrace,
as crowds climbed slowly up the place.
Jesús Hernando Camacho Mosquera
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