He wasn’t a Dino Madrid,
or an Alfonso Salvador, you
wouldn’t give him a second
look or a second thought, he
flapped when he walked,
like sails in want of wind, that’s
it, he didn’t have wind at all,
but he had a heart-rending smile,
something between “I like you,”
and “Can we be friends?” yes,
he would place himself entirely
at your disposal, speaking in
hushed tones, as if in church,
reverential is the word for it,
in perfect non-judgment, pure
friend, and under October skies
he would be buried with heroes,
it’s sunny one moment and so rainy
that prayers come to mind, even
nature cannot match his steady
walk, for when we was in third
year high school, he wanted to
wear the uniform, and so it has
come to pass, that the most
obedient one will be buried as
a hero of the fair republic, he
always wanted to wear the
uniform, and in it he shall be
interred, for dead men do tell
tales, tales of strong desire born
in the girded loins of young men,
eager for victories well-fought,
but the pantheon of heroes
belong to those who wait,
wait with Aurel smile, “Thank you,
I know what I want,” he whispers
from death’s door left ajar,
“The boy in me knew that from
the start, glory belongs to those
who will not dare seek it.”

Goodbye, Aurel.