I Want to Paint You, Papa

I want to paint you, Papa,
with brushes of truth,
with pigments from memory
and colors that do not exist.

I spill the paint on myself
not knowing how to hold the brush.
You laugh to your self and tell me:
"Be careful, my little one,
for painting is an difficult task."

I am not a painter, my Papi,
but I want to do it with care,
to draw your picture as from
the image in my child’s eyes
that I never will forget.

I hold the brush of memory
with the color of fondness.
“Look how pretty, my papa,
how beautifully you are captured.

Neither Michelagelo could surpass me,
nor even Leonardo.
They only used their hands,
but I, I used my heart
to tell you that I love you.”

We laugh together with joy
remembering times that passed.
A tear trails down my cheek.
“Why did you have to leave me?”

"My little son, do not become sad,"
you told me with care.
"Do not ruin your work!
You have nearly finished! It is pretty!"

I hold the brush more carefully
with joy and enthusiasm.
I select the colors
of hope and vigor.

I drink a glass of fondness
with all the love I have,
a repose, my father,
as the work is almost done.

I see your face in my painting.
How incredible the beauty!
I do not believe that I did this,
I have no doubt that I was helped.

I was sure, Papi, that it was you
who gently assisted me
but you told me with a soft voice,
“It was not me, my child.”

So who can be the painter
of such beautiful lovliness?
Who can be capable
of creating this masterpiece?

I hear a voice in the distance
of someone who says to me,
"Until now, you have not heard me.
I am your God, your creator.

“I am always with you
although you say that I am not.
I guided your soul while you created
such a beautiful piece,
work not made with your hands,
but with your heart.

“I guided your heart as well
although at times you didn’t wish it,
and you told me that I left you,
that I forgot you and did not see you.

“Your father loves you as he loves no one else
and he would do anything for you.
He would give his blood, his life.
If necessary so it will be.

“You have problems, I know,
but there are others who suffer,
who do not laugh, who only cry
who truly are in need.

“Look at the image of your father,
how contented he is.
Be as he is, go forward
and you will see miracles.”

And so it is, such is life,
like a wheel that turns.
Today I sketch a drawing and tomorrow
only the creator knows what I will do.

Here, seated,
I recall those moments
as if they were yesterday:
this painting and the voices
of my father, of my Guide
and of my God, my Creator.

Copyright 2004 by Michael Jose Morales Arriola
Translated by Ron Hudson

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Quiero Pintarte Papá

Quiero pintarte papá,
con pinceles de verdad,
con pinturas de recuerdo
con colores que no existen

Y me ensucio con las pinturas.
No se coger el pincel.
Tú te ríes y me dices:
Ten cuidado, hijito mío
que el pintar es una ardua tarea

No soy pintor mi papito,
pero quiero hacerlo, con cariño,
delinear aquellos trazos
que en mi ojos de niño
jamás podré olvidar

Cojo el pincel del recuerdo
con el color del afecto.
Mira que lindo mi papito
como estás quedando de bello

Ni Miguel Angel  me supera
Ni siquiera un Leonardo,
Ellos sólo usan las manos,
Y yo este corazón que te dice:  Te amo

Nos reímos juntos que alegría,
Recordando tiempos que se fueron
Una lágrima corre por mi mejilla,
¿Por qué te fuiste en ese momento?

Hijito mío no entristezcas,
tú me dices con cariño
no arruines tu trabajo
casi acabas!!!, esta lindo!!!

Mejor cojo los pinceles
de alegría y entusiasmo.
Selecciono los colores,
de esperanza y lozanía

Tomo un vaso de cariño
como algo de amor
un descanso mi papito,
casi acabo esta obrita

Veo tu rostro en mi pintura.
Que increíble que lindura.
Yo no creo haberlo hecho,
de eso, a mi no me cabe duda

Has sido tu seguro papi,
Quien me dió una ayudita,
Pero tu me dices con una dulce voz
Yo no he sido hijito lindo

Y ¿Quién puede ser el autor
de tan bella hermosura?
¿Quién puede ser capaz
De crear esa bravura?

Oigo a lo lejos la voz
 De alguien que me dice
Hasta ahora no lo entiendes
 Soy tu Dios, tu creador

Siempre contigo estoy
Aunque tu digas que no,
Yo guié tu alma para que hagas
Esa obra tan hermosa
Que no esta hecha con las manos
Si no con el corazon

Igual guío tu corazón
Aunque a veces tu no quieras,
Y me digas que te dejo,
Que te olvido, no te veo

Él  te ama como a nadie
Y por ti haría lo que sea
Seria capaz de dar su sangre
Si necesario hacer eso fuera

Tienes problemas yo lo se,
Pero hay otros que mas sufren,
Que no rien, solo lloran,
Que de verdad les va mal,

Mira el cuadro de tu papi,
Que contento él está
Haz lo mismo, ve adelante
Maravillas tu veras

Y es asi, asi es la vida,
Como una ruleta que gira,
Ahora hago un cuadro y mañana
Solo sabe el creador, que haré

Ahora aquí sentado
Yo recuerdo esos momentos
Como si fuesen ayer
Ese cuadro y esa voz,
A mi padre a mi gestor,
Y a mi Dios, mi creador

Copyright 2004 by Michael Jose Morales Arriola