The old man wanted to walk with a haste that his feet did not understand, the sidewalk of a street with no name, shoe soles and worn tight to his socks, raking the concrete, dusting, sidewalk a street with no name, combing and stripping, which smells and died. Feet
agile mouth looking for bread, tired feet who dream of skateboarding, floppy feet that hurt with a song, looking for sea waves looking for winter spring smells. You build your castle
old horse, to navigate in conch shell, singing your cow moon butterfly flooding the Caribbean Sea and tunes of trumpets, the most beautiful muses of your land Venezuela, in your letters are always found.
Did you hear? I told him my mother embraced, is the rondalla that sings to Venezuela, that old music so dear and beloved, as understood and abused, worn in all his ways and live more than a simple call of "I Love You Dude" . Now look I repeated
joyful dance herons, horses gallop, are tunes, are consistent, is the fourth and the harp that walk on all fours, is the light of day drawing smiles on the stars of this level that does not sleep because shines namely, that their dignity in you lived your days for you are known.
As Simon thank you, men like you sent messages with high-flying birds, with fish swimming deep, with eyes tested that hail from the soul.
Your greatness is nobler to be here with so many Venezuelans in this struggle for true Freedom.
Simon. May GOD bless you. Antonio José Lezama
Oman.
