The Journey
My thought follows the inflections of her undulating voice.
A vaporous image announces itself behind the old, damp glass of the window and is quickly lost in the depths of the inner halls.
The building scratches, with its violent angles and profiles, the lazy shade.
I was ceaselessly marching, activated by a higher will.
The day struck to illuminate the deserted spot.
But night surprised me once more inside the inexorable circle of the hills.
Las formas del fuego (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
1 comment:
No dejo de preguntarme, qué tipo de viaje es este. Me hizo estremecer (me dio miedo).
Deleite leerlo, a pesar de la posible pesadilla.
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