Dedicated to a very good friend which I expect will forgive the use of the picture of his eyes as illustration for this poem.
Those eyes are saying what wouldn't have place in a thousand books.

Among a myriad of people around
I found, a colleague maybe you say,
the one that writes on his papers
words not from a inspired poet,
but with those belonging to a friend;
all the written poem words you read
and never once you lift your head
to look into those intense sad eyes
that are telling more than the foresaid,
of a man that have walked deserts
where sands were human indifference,
where children looking for a mother
were lost, no paths on an empty place;
I will call he my friend because
I have seen that kind of very sad eyes
inside a life mirror with broken images
which you can’t delete, just agonize;
ask, and ask again for him to tell
the truth about a journey that brutalize
the soul into thousand small pieces,
a zombie's jigsaw that’s dehumanized;
then, like Phoenix, the fire bird,
that from all the ruin’s ashes raises
the poet, shaking the universal time,
take his quill and paper, become alive!
but if you lift your head and look well…
you will see sad eyes, on Larry’s face.