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You are his dawn,
this little child who looks like you
breaks into smiles as if the first light
has just broken on the horizon
each time he sees you
and dances as if to a profound music
inside the soul when the sound
of your key turning on the lock
signals your coming home.

You are his sky,
this young dreamer who wonders
about a million things in the vast world
looks up to you and reaches feverishly
for the giddy heights of your embrace,
gets a taste of the clouds
when he sits on your strong shoulders.

You are his entire concept of time,
your absence the empty spaces
traversed by the clock’s hour hand,
the tones of your voice
the inflections of the seasons.

You are to him
everything he thinks is his
and hopes to understand:
the river of tail lights in a traffic jam,
the grimy salt trucks on a wintry road,
the syllables of conversations,
the gentleness of prayer,
responsibility, country, money
and the warmth of home,
the rhyme and reason of being a man
getting clearer as he slowly gets older
with you leading him by the hand.

“Family Relations” by photographer Olgaciob


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