The hero an image under the sun
Invisible is not a person
But he sleeps in his bed of silence
With two eyes that define absence
Seen in that incandescent mystique
fleshless from the bones
What is beating of wings embedded on marble
Soulless stone laid bare like an anthem
Ghostly graphic are letters or your name
Who is not actually a question
Who was segregated references
To the Sculptor who does something from the uncertain
Something although in a lot the hero resembles
The hard rock adds uncertainty to the chisel

That's how I saw him in San Luis the one from Naranjo
In the bustling park of my childhood
Ask without opening your mouth for an epitaph
For a machete embracing some combat
Through the bush contemplating him proudly
For looking like a lonely figure
As if they dressed him on purpose from oblivion:
That outfit that heroes don't deserve
Couldn't the Sculptor with a horse
Stand on two front legs in the air
Chisel the stature of an idea?

I know he was able to carve in low relief
As without living or dying still lived.