Yesterday I saw him wearing glasses.
My father used to have a perfect vision.
His hair was gray, like the ashes of my cigar.
His hands, wrinckled, like my heart after the thought of you.

His grip was not as hard as it used to.
His hand holding mine was no longer strong.
But when we walk on the streets he still protects me,
as if his paper-thin body could stop a storm.

"You'll always be my baby daughter" he says with a smile that shadows his eyes.
With a tired body and soul,
but with a heart just as big and infinite as time.