Who do you think I am? His portrait is asking me.

Who do you think I am? 
His portrait is asking me.
He is just a man with such a common face that he could go unnoticed. 
The color of his hair and the expression of his face show how many years lived. 
His mustache and beard are long and white. Perhaps he has struggled for so long that he has not had time to take care of himself. 
He looks so thin that there is no doubt that scarcity of resources has been abundant on his path. 
The sun has changed the color of his skin, now darker. His drooping eyelids seem to say, 'life full of struggles and hard work'. 
His clothes look like those of a working man. He has no gold, threads, nor precious stones, but his clothes seem to be the garments of a champion. 
His wide-brimmed blue hat seems to have been cut.
Cut in the fight, weathered by the time passed, or bitten by an animal. 
Nevertheless, the champion does not care about the condition of his hat. He knows that his hat does not represent who he is. He knows that his hat fulfills its purpose of sheltering him from the burning sun, so everyday he wears it.
He does not have the time to smile, nor to cry. He only has time to work. 
Sometimes laughing and crying are considered a privilege.
His gesture is just a breviary of an exemplary life.
He is just an ordinary man with so little to give, but much of himself to give to others.

ORIGINAL VERSION IN SPANISH:

¿Quién crees que soy yo? 
Me pregunta su retrato.
Es sólo un hombre de un rostro tan común que pudiera parecer inadvertido.
El color de su pelo y la expresión de su cara muestran ya muchos años de vida. 
Su bigote y barbas son largos y blancos, tal vez ha estado tanto tiempo en la lucha, que no ha tenido tiempo de cuidar su persona. 
Se le ve tan delgado que no hay duda de por donde ha caminado, la escasez es la que ha abundado. 
El sol ha cambiado el color de su piel, ahora más obscura y su párpado caído parecen decir 'la vida es lucha y trabajo duro'. 
Su ropa parece la de un hombre trabajador, no tiene hilos de oro ni piedras preciosas, pero parece ser la prenda de un campeón; 
incluso su sombrero azul de ala ancha parece que ha sido cortado. 
Su sombrero cortado en la lucha, cortado por el uso o mordido por un animal, pero a él, a el campeón, no le importa la condición de su sombrero, él no es ese sombrero, el sombrero sólo cumple su función de cubrirlo del ardiente sol y sigue usando ese mismo sombrero. 
No tiene tiempo para sonreír, tampoco para llorar, solo para trabajar. 
A veces sonreír o llorar es un privilegio de los privilegiados. 
Su gesto es sólo un breviario de una vida ejemplar. 
Un hombre ordinario, con poco que dar, pero mucho que darse.