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