the singer

his salty voice filled the piazza
his guitar working the rhythm
the children were used to stomping their feet,
their humming spreading all over town

the wind they created got strength to push
the cyclists up the hill,
rising their dreams bathed in sweat
above the clouds that limit the mind.

the dust from the motorcycles
did not dare stain the clothes hung out to dry
while he sang his heart out,
with stories he met in his travels or sleep

the girls turned pretty, and just as strong
as the boys because he sung their powers
in his songs. the boys dared to dream,
unashamed, just like girls - of a brighter tomorrow.

many children learned to take their firs steps,
and some even grew old enough to exchange
a first kiss, while he sung his stories
for a couple decades in salty voice, in the piazza.