La merced de la bruma / José Antonio Ramos Sucre

The Mercy of the Mist

I live at the feet of the courteous lady, making out her benign numinous smile.
     The northern wind invades the chilly hall and captivates the chimeras and the ghosts of weariness in its whirlwind. She repeats the monologue of the hapless pine and dampens oh invisible tears! the face of the mirrors and consoles of a sad gold.
     I glimpse through the window the outrage of a bear and the startling of some slow birds, of precocious sleep. The afternoon adorns the forest of taciturn lights.
     The discourse of the insinuating woman is not able to mitigate the grief of exile. I suffer the sorcery of its sudden will and declare in indirect phrases the thought of a return to the jovial midday. My words fly away horrified, sick with the anguish of the sky.
     The courteous lady guesses a benevolent message in the distance. She receives in the hands of a slight and suspicious rider the secret of immortal beauty, the iris of the poles, an ignored flower.




El cielo de esmalte (1929)




{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }