Orson Welles,
a man,
a giant who managed to hold on
to his childhood wonder
all through his life.
He who died with his adolescent smile.
True gold never is able to rust like others
unless in boredom,
in the absence of
real meaning.
A God who lowered himself to sell commercials,
flashy wines with no flesh,
to sacrifice his innocence,
to behead his pride
for the idol of art, and cinema.
an artist who never sold his soul to dazzle
who never was distracted
from his truth,
with success, with untruth,
a maverick heart who had never sold out,
a giant who died soon
to justify
his everlasting presence,
a tool for betterment,
a sacrificial boll in the blood thirst of red roses,
the epic of an ingenius hero
looking for the gratification of nobility
instead of the self.
