La Cosecha
Augusto Blanca
The Harvest
My son no longer wants to be a pilot,
he launches himself to the stars differently,
fearless, without a plane, without a spacesuit:
my son is no longer thirteen years old.
My son has chosen another way
more certain, perhaps crazy,
to open his own path,
and goes out to reaffirm the spring.
My dreamy elf is now my friend,
my rein, my trust, my riddle,
my just mirror, my archer, my sound,
my truth, my dear companion.
My little stream is now a river,
a mighty wonder at the bend.
He faces a hurricane and takes the risk;
my son is not afraid of battles.
My son has slipped from my hands,
he grows, he takes ownership of his endeavor.
Today my furrow yields the harvest;
my handful of seeds has triumphed.
My son is no longer thirteen years old.
My son no longer wants to be a pilot.
My son has slipped from my hands,
and this twelfth of October I miss him.
