Ocaso / José Antonio Ramos Sucre

Sunset

My soul delights watching the sky in blue or cloudy stretches, with the murmur of a delicious waltz. It imitates the quietude of the bird that prepares to rest for the approaching night. The advance of the shade blesses, like that of a timid virgin arriving to the date, when the day gathers itself and its cohort of inopportune rumors. Its black veils grow silently, becoming thicker with time, until its uniform stain and gentle slip provide the illusion of a sea of sedative and evil waters.
     Enveloped in the provident darkness, I imagine the solace of lying forgotten in the heart of an incalculable abyss, emulating the fortune of those characters whom the delirious Asiatic wit describes, happily captivated by the fascination of some marine divinity in the labyrinth of fantastic grottoes.
     The sounds of the delicious waltz expire when the sun diffuses its final light over the oasis of the afternoon. In favor of the already quiet and dark atmosphere my senses enjoy their deserved lull of alert greyhounds. And to stop over my forehead the lazy gyre of its flight, from the heart of the shade surges the vampire of melancholy.




La torre de Timón (1925)




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