XXV / Eduardo Mariño


Outside the storm rages with great obstinacy, erratic and at the same time perfectly nailed with its glimmers, in the trembling of your glance.

Do you still hear me? Do you know how many accounts hang from the lightning’s tail? Who knows?

Fate is a gust of wind that spatters our face with mud and fresh rain; Fate is a vile ruse by the gods to hide their incompetence.

Lift your face, the flash.

Tell me if you’re still raining.

Let out a slow and sincere sigh, like the breathing of eras across the sky’s unarmed skin; feel the murmur under your steps.

No, don’t go now, it’s cold and my hands are stiff with fear.

Have you noticed?, something joins us with sickly indifference or apparent desolation; I’m starting to think we never came from where we thought we did and that we’ll never get to where we’re going; this is a harsh portrait of the Earth’s sorrows, its crushed entrails and my thought in your eyes, sad and nearly consumed, by the rays and the thunder, and the hours, and my infantile harassment, and [...] well, some things I don’t understand.

These notes grow day by day, and I have the firm conviction that the movements I predict in your hair aren’t due merely to the storm, there’s a rhythmic premonition and minor swings of reproach that prefigure eventual fractures of the sacrament.

No, the roof won’t give in yet, I promise.

Let it keep raining, and if by chance I close my eyes, Yaddith will have ceased shining in them.

Por si los dioses mueren (1995)

{ Eduardo Mariño, A la salida del fastuoso recital, Caracas: Monte Ávila Editores, 2009 }

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