Sometimes, the harvest disappoints us, depresses us, leaves us out of the possibility of rejoice. After the long work of every day, neither time nor life gave us, this time, for more.
It did not rain. And the small outbreaks of life were drying and dying. There was hardly on what I am looking for and pick up. These little potatoes that could not grow.
Despite that, nothing can prevent my hand from raising my hand. To greet the happiness of staying alive, in this son -threw and difficult place that was always mine and will continue to be. Until the end.
My feet, my hands and my eyes live full of dust and earth. From this exhausted land, tired of giving birth to small offspring, poor potatoes that already collect as a rest of my hope, but with the same good will.
I am not alone, we are more at home. And I think about all the time, much more than I think of myself. Maybe that's why they named me patriarch. Therefore and for the long years I accumulate. Walking, cultivating, being.
And, as a patriarch, it is expected to contribute food, comfort and future. And how could I do it now? How can I offer what I lack so much? Who can I ask for that inspiration?
I ask myself while I raise my hand and, in silence, I sow in this cold earth the warmth of a prayer. In it the payment of my plea and the seed of my tear are contained. And the words, few and clear, of my sincere faith.
Which is the faith of all those who, with me, yearn to see the sweet pen of hope fall on us. And see her stay. And, next to her, to prosper.
Pepe Navarro
