Carnival
A woman with imperfect factions and a calm gesture obsesses my thought. A septentrional painter would have situated her in the course of a familiar scene, so as to distract himself from his melancholic genius, besieged by macabre figures.
I had reached the room of the party in the company of my turbulent friends, resolved to make the shadow of my tedium fade away. We were coming from an episode, where they had risked their lives for me.
The transvestite enemies surrounded us at once, after blocking the avenues. We admired the rough and obstinate assault, the firm fist of the swordsmen. They wordlessly multiplied their mortal blows, avoiding any declaration with their voice. They backed off, broken and sulking, leaving behind the trail of their blood in the snow on the ground.
My friends, seduced by the party’s racket, left me laid out on a divan. They tried to encourage my strength by means of a stimulating potion. I ingested an unhealthy drink, a briny liquor with green reflections, the very sediment of a groaning sea, frequented by the albatrosses.
They were lost in the turning of the party.
I was glimpsing the same figure of this moment. I was suffering the grief of the septentrional artist and noticing the presence of the woman with imperfect factions and a calm gesture during a pause in the dance of the dead.
Las formas del fuego (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
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