Time, pause for a moment your invisible wing.
Sky, bow your burning vault.
Be witnesses to the sacred mystery
which a man understands his destiny
when he hears, for the first time,
the heartbeat that does not arise from his chest
and yet belongs to him.
Let the centuries be silent.Let love speak.
My son, when I saw your eyes for the first time,
I found in your light the north of my life;
the shadow fled, and my fierce night ceased.
And it was as if the entire universe
rearranged its secret architecture,
as if chaos found form and name
in the delicate purity of your cradle.
It was dawn rising within my blood,
eternity dressed in tenderness,
the first instant in which I understood
that to love is to abdicate all heights.
If the world raised towers into the void,
they would not match your small attempt;
for in your laughter I find my free will,
and in your heartbeat, firm foundation.
Let time run: my truth persists,
for you give cause to the being that exists in me.
Because, my son,
when the dawn lifts its pure brow
and the sun lights up the days,
I think of your name — clear architecture
that raises eternal harmonies in my chest.
And the horizon trembles in its gold,
as if pronouncing you were to make the morning;
for your name is lineage of the sacred
mystery that life reverberates.
You are the light that rises in my darkness,
the firm voice that orders my destiny;
my blood in you remakes its future,
because you are my compass and my path.
You are a promise written in ancient fire,
a silent oath of victory;
you are the page on which
I continue what began in my flesh as history.
If the world roars in harsh storm
and thunder wounds the heart of the earth,
I will be the rock that encourages your step,
I will be the hand that supports your flight.
But I do not want you a fragile shadow of mine,
nor a submissive echo of my old story:
I want you a sun that invents midday,
sovereign architect of your glory.
Mother’s Love” is a digital painting by Osiris Valdés depicting a mother and her child looking toward the horizon. The work captures the intimacy of the maternal bond through a moment of quiet connection, where a shared gaze into the future becomes a symbol of protection, love, and hope.
Walk upright; honor the truth
even if the night tries to persuade you.
Let your conscience be your majesty
and let no gold manage to corrupt you.
Love without fear, with burning effort;
be just even when justice hurts.
Let your word be a clear log
where clean and faithful news burns.
Let gold never buy your conscience,
nor applause govern your destiny;
let your law be pure transparency
and your victory the good sown on the path.
And if one day dark discouragement
wearies the young vigor of your brow,
remember: in you I planted my purest love,
deep, eternal, and persistent root.
A root that neither death disintegrates,
nor the gray dust of time erases;
for what the father crowns in the son
not even oblivion can make perish.
There is no work, my son, that equals my effort
to see you free, whole, and brave.
My pride is not the height I climbed,
but the happiness in your present smile.
When I am gone — a silent and certain law
that one day claims every father —
you will find alive, luminous, and open,
my blood running through your veins.
And there will be no shadow in that farewell,
nor cold in the memory that names me;
for I will live in your pulse and your life,
in every noble act that astonishes you.
For being a father is to give the soul
without expecting reward from time;
it is to see in another flourish the calm
that once was but a slight braid.
It is to renounce the center of history
to found greatness in another;
it is to crown their brow with victory
even if one must bow their own head.
Son: if I leave you any inheritance, it is this love,
burning and unreflected,
which, when pronouncing your name,
shatters mirrors.
And so, while life sounds and vibrates
with its murmur of swords and lilies,
my heart will be your free homeland,
your firm home among good things.
Love with sacred and pure intensity,
as the sea loves its open horizon;
be strong and tender; let your hard pulse
bend to the weak with certain embrace.
But I do not want you a submissive shadow,
nor a docile echo of my old story:
I want you charioteer of your own life,
clean crown of your own glory.
Because when the dawn lifts its golden brow
and the sky anoints the heights with purple,
I pronounce your name — and all treasure
fades before your light.
And if the centuries raise their statues
and marble falls, and empires die,
the bond that acts
when parents live in their children will remain intact.
For in you, my son, my blood sings,
my faith is reborn, my destiny ascends;
and all that rises in my being
finds in your existence what transcends.
And even when the last star is extinguished
and time itself folds its banners,
your name in my eternity will shine
like the most unconquered of bonfires.
And then,
if dust claims my bones
and the wind dissolves my name into the distance,
there will be no oblivion.
For he who has multiplied in love does not die,
nor does the flame that was a torch in another blood extinguish.
You will be my permanence.
My secret victory.
My pronounced eternity.
And when the dawn again raises its brow
over the fields of the world,
there will be in your step something of my heartbeat,
in your gaze a vestige of my fire,
and in your voice — firm, luminous, invincible —
proof that love
is the only work
that defies time.
#randomhouse
#osirisvaldéslópez
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