There he was, from the first mournful cry
In the echo of trees, in the wind's soft sigh
A name I never sought, but that I received
Mr. Godoz, the guide of strides silent and free

In childhood, his eyes would meet my own
Though our faces had never been shown
In blood and steps, our bond was known

He led not with words, but with unseen gestures
In morning's warmth and night’s cold textures
I never wavered in his shadow vast
For within it lived a certainty steadfast

And when I fell, his hands became my ground
Though I never saw them, they were always around
Thus we grew together—one in flesh, one profound

In youth, his presence turned to fire
A surge of choices, a breath of desire
Mr. Godoz danced with me to destiny's beat
A compass in hands that needed no sight
A beacon within time’s encroaching night

His lessons came like lightning's flare
Illuminating truths too vast to bear
He was my horizon, constant and rare

By middle age, I became part of his stream
Like the earth to the river, the river to the dream
No longer led, but walking in stride
For a man becomes the guide when he understands the guide

In later years, his hand turned to a voice
Whispering through leaves, in rain's quiet poise
The path was drawn, but he still walked near
Not to lead, but to linger here
A craftsman admiring his work sincere

Mr. Godoz was no man, nor a deity's hue
He was the vein that beats, the wind that flew
I never needed to see or yearned to know
For in the end, I found: Mr. Godoz was me, all along