In the Traveler's search for God, he left a little angel crying for both of them when he decided to continue his journey.

The traveler, stubbornly continued his journey
leaving a little angel sitting on a rock to cry,
because he didn’t believed of nothing out there
as he walked a great expanse of untouched land,
where mountains loomed far away like storms
and the earth was covered of hope its grass,
so he went on to reach yet another horizon
looking for what the Book said was the light,
because like Thomas he needed to see the proof,
the traveler had seen nothing and he wasn’t blind.

Indefatigable feet with a faith of their own, walk,
taking the one that of believing he almost try,
distances not covered in measurable yards days
or by how many shadows you can count at night,
a merciless world where roses don’t ask for thorns
just for a beauty without punishing the tender hand
that comes with that promised and expected caress,
or begging you to take them with you to new lands
under your feet, that crying pebbles going nowhere,
earth bijouterie, scattered worthless diamonds like.

After a few soft sloped hills a valley was below,
emerald in color, full of that lushly of all grass
after crossing so many horizon the traveler thought
“this is what my heart says is the image of Paradise”
he was looking around that peaceful surroundings
only slightly disturbed by all those dispersed lambs
like cotton dots prancing here, there and everywhere
on a landscape with a busy old man holding a staff
was trying without a dog to get that flock together
with apparently tired legs and worse to wear back.

On the top of the hill was a lonely old tree where
leaning against it apparently total unconcerned sat
looking down at the feeble elder efforts to gather
all his cotton dots before the wolves could arrive
as the shadows were coming in a tsunami wave to
cover the peaceful landscape with menacing dark,
“are not you going down and help?” the traveler said
with annoyance in his voice to the sitting young man,
“no” the young man answered, “he his my father,
once, in pain, why he had forsaken me I asked why?”

“Young man” said the traveler, “that’s your father,
whatever “wrong” he did, maybe a purpose he had”
“look who’s talking, I did not forsake my father, but
if you remember well you did” said the young man,
“how come” the traveler uttered, “if I never meet him
how can I have forsake an unknown not in my life?”
“sir” said the sitting one, “I am just a part of him, but
you are the son that will not help him with the lambs
“I’m not his son, he not my father, nor you my brother”
said the traveler, “my real family I yet haven’t found.”

“Go, just wander away” the sitting man said, “didn’t
tell you that nothing is there, beyond, by someone
that you left sitting in a rock, sad and disconsolate?”
The traveler looked into those sorrowful young eyes
“that was just the words of a little child not knowing
that after the next horizon always you find another one”
The traveler saw the old man had his flock together,
the lambs secured from the wolves coming at night,
but he kept going, feeling sadness at the question…
was he that had forsake the father from his heart?