The Trace
A feverish light was traversing the skies on the night of Good Friday.
I was distinguishing the profiles of a city hidden in the shadow and symbol of a scale of volatile sounds in the penitent silence.
I had leaned out the window after consigning to a piece of writing the fates of an ideal passion. I was veering the discourse to the case of Dante, to his troubles with love in the chamber of frights and bitterness.
I was suffering from the fearlessness of my thought. A perverse form was imitating the object of my dissipation and implying with a gesture the view of a torture.
The tempest, born in some livid mountains, was forcing the tumult of the darkness to escape ahead of itself and scattering the voices of a damned multitude. I spoke among praises the sovereign name, cypher of my desires, and the laconic phantasm slipped away from my presence, leaving in its place a trail of dust.
El cielo de esmalte (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
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