FROM ALMOST A COUNTRY
I
was born in Borburata. There was a green plant holder in the hallway;
the water would hurl itself down and would echo inside the clay jug
with a sound like small coins falling. A fountain stood out in the patio;
the ferns bunched up around it and formed a greenish, humid awning that
smelled pleasant. The pillars were round, made of wood, and nails that
sometimes injured, jutted out of the cracked sections.
The
house had few rooms. The rooftops were made out of cañabrava
wood and mangrove beams; that’s where the spiders wove their hives,
which packed the edges of the wooden framework. On the headpieces of
the beds and in the water jugs, the moths and a fine, golden sand brought
in by the wind from the distant sea would always accumulate. Two little
stoves were always turned on; occasionally, a fly or a bee, who had
been hunting the soup that was being cooked, would scorch itself within
the embers.
Behind
the yard, where an apamate tree grew, ran a gorge. The cows would go
there to drink, while the thrushes picked at their feathers and I thought
of the day I would live in Caracas, Caracas which I imagined as if it
were the most beautiful, immense palace inhabited by glorious men.
+++
Juan
is my friend and he has such black and such large eyes that it’s impossible
for the sun to ever make them fade one day.
I
met him one afternoon, he didn’t ask my name, he stood there observing
me, quietly, calmly; he contemplated the mountains through the windowpanes,
with the multitude of houses spread around them: hats the wind would
have tossed. I told him my name was Lucía and with a soft, tender
voice he began to repeat it, as though I’d told him the name of a continent,
a lake, a forest he was anxious to observe.
+++
Next
to the stairs of El Calvario, I say to Juan:
“Let’s
not descend the steps too quickly.”
“Lucía,
if you want to know this city you have to hurry. Caracas is too big,
so much that I almost mistake her for a country.”
We
descend quickly. Since I’m happy, I remain quiet. Juan has told me not
to speak when I’m content; it’s better to be quiet, and this way the
happiness doesn’t end. It actually remains intact, like certain gifts
that are stored so as to not be damaged or broken.
+++
Juan
has arrived punctually. I like his suit, it is the color of medlar.
He doesn’t say a word to me; but it doesn’t matter.
We
stroll through Plaza Altamira. A green grass, with yellow tones, surrounds
the plaza. There are bushes, round pines, benches. The obelisk is a
mast, an immense needle. Beyond the avenues, many buildings lift themselves
up, with balconies, doors and ferns the breeze moves.
We
sit down on a bench. The pond, placed in the center of the plaza, is
wide, long; the sun penetrates there and transforms itself, beneath
the water, into a white shell. A small boat, with a yellow chimney,
sails slowly, its dark anchors and the metallic rigging. It stumbles
into the shore and stays still; around it: water, space, sky too high
above, with the stars hidden amid the clouds.
Juan
stands up. He runs to the corner. He chooses a fallen branch and begins
to touch it.
Then
he puts something warm into my hands, somewhat scratchy, it’s a nest
full of newborn pigeons! I imagine the sun must have been like this
when it was born and they placed it above the earth.
+++
FROM OVAL LIGHT
Clarity of thought
is charged by the limit
of the sphere and the star
even from the good that
will not stagnate on your hand
or stay trapped
in the polished axles of beginnings
Rather, the soul
is filled by your skin, by your weeping,
even by your distances
creating your double fence of dreams
so that the root of vigor might thread around you
and burst into the transparency of feeling
Then the petal will detach
toward the luminous mirrors of roundness
and anxiety
toward the ever quiet depths of your own, unique,
expectant
And we ask ourselves
why such an urge
if the secret crowns of the skies
never move away
that is the soul of the voice
that is love?
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