Luciano’s song

When Luciano passes,
the flower sellers weep
and cover with petals his unending death,
his unending life, his frozen watch
that silently signals the hour
that will announce
that stubborn and cold time
that the people has tied to his hands
so that the struggle
of Luciano could bloom.

He returns in bone, in cold, on a horse,
in a kiss, in fire.
He is of steel, of air, of ashes, and,
wide awake, he comes to continue.

Who would tie him to only one map?
Who would destroy his image?
Who would silence his voice?

When Luciano returns
he explodes in light,
uncovers the truth,
breaking with his hands
the wires of fear,
he breathes in each mouth
for the revolution.

He returns armed with water and wind
to guard our dreams,
to rekindle dead dreams.
Let him,
let him,
let him in now!

When Luciano passes
the people are numberless,
and a woman will cry out
his name from above.
The dark ceremony of death
will take him
like the shadow within a shadow
of the funeral rite,
the rite that lights his path
which the people had tied to his hands
so that Luciano’s struggle could bloom!