The Verse
The white water lily was surging from the pool, among the haughty ducks bearing in their feathers the blush of the flames. The cypress was confusing its tenuous leaves in the dust, at the intersection of the avenues. It was suffering, dressed in mourning, the spray of a crystal drizzle.
A domestic, supplied with a steel trident and a lantern at his waist, was moving through the ill-fated garden speaking aloud. The strutting peacocks were animating the indolent hours of darkness.
The Chinese princess, with a svelte figure, appeared on tiptoes to lament the decadent corolla of the flowers cultivated under a glass bell and abandoned herself to her humble and infantile tears.
That same day she was solicited for marriage and shared with me her bitterness. She wanted to take with her to the campaign tent of a nomad, to the glacial wasteland, a profound judgment, a verse from my fantasy, applied to the harshness of fortune and I drew it on her ivory fan, recalling the signs of a noble calligraphy.
El cielo de esmalte (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
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