The Chimera’s Ties
I was keeping a vigil in the crisis of nocturnal solitude. The portrait of an ideal woman, the only treasure in the lodgings, was extending my frown, occasionally entertaining my anxiety.
I had found it at the auction of some genteel furniture. The nuance of the hair reminded me of a gracile beauty, phantasm of oblivion. A dreamer’s paintbrush had uselessly persisted in imitating it.
I was making an effort to discover the enigma of a singular discipline, of a secret art, and I was drawing, without realizing it, the figure of inedited quantities.
I have exhausted myself to the point of sinking into drowsiness, beneath the fingers of a cold marble hand.
I awoke in a funeral parlor and wandered through all of it, sidestepping the stone urns. On the plinth of an image of eternity, blinded by a veil, I found the residue of Juliet’s poison.
El cielo de esmalte (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
9.28.2010
Los acusadores / José Antonio Ramos Sucre
The Accusers
I defended the youngest daughter of a king when she saw herself crushed by her unfaithful sisters and from that moment I set off on the path of exile.
I crossed the sea in one night and found myself in front of a demolished coast. I recognized the domicile of a hermit served by a throng of sea birds, of thick bearing and guttural voice.
He placed bagpipes in my hands. I was supposed to play them when the afternoon fell and its melodies were enough to create the image of the native ground and keep me from forgetting it. In this manner I cultivated the feeling of absence and achieved fame for being an eloquent artist and I would repay the hospitality with the sounds of a sensible music.
I played the bagpipes amid the uncertainty of a vain twilight, made iridescent by the rain. The moon was emerging soon afterwards, ringed with a tenuous aureole, and it recalled the resentful virgin and her crown of Celtic verbena.
The sisters occupied her in undignified and urgent ministries, attentive to withering her. She suffered and died when she noticed her parched beauty and scullions and kitchen wenches made up her funeral procession.
I wanted to spread news of the treason to the four winds and referred it to a group of traveling actors, taking advantage of a sojourn on their road.
El cielo de esmalte (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
I defended the youngest daughter of a king when she saw herself crushed by her unfaithful sisters and from that moment I set off on the path of exile.
I crossed the sea in one night and found myself in front of a demolished coast. I recognized the domicile of a hermit served by a throng of sea birds, of thick bearing and guttural voice.
He placed bagpipes in my hands. I was supposed to play them when the afternoon fell and its melodies were enough to create the image of the native ground and keep me from forgetting it. In this manner I cultivated the feeling of absence and achieved fame for being an eloquent artist and I would repay the hospitality with the sounds of a sensible music.
I played the bagpipes amid the uncertainty of a vain twilight, made iridescent by the rain. The moon was emerging soon afterwards, ringed with a tenuous aureole, and it recalled the resentful virgin and her crown of Celtic verbena.
The sisters occupied her in undignified and urgent ministries, attentive to withering her. She suffered and died when she noticed her parched beauty and scullions and kitchen wenches made up her funeral procession.
I wanted to spread news of the treason to the four winds and referred it to a group of traveling actors, taking advantage of a sojourn on their road.
El cielo de esmalte (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
9.22.2010
La huella / José Antonio Ramos Sucre
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 }
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 }
9.20.2010
Bajo el velamen de púrpura / José Antonio Ramos Sucre
Under the Purple Canvas
I had spent half the night within view of the cold constellations and came to gather myself and sleep in a cavity, in the manner of Orpheus.
I was encountering the companion of my fatigues less frequently. He was the son of a king precipitated from the throne and had come to me after traversing different climes.
He appeared in dreams and referred me to his death at the hands of some insensible goatherds. His body had been abandoned in a desert of stones. There, some beasts born of the ocean would crawl heavily.
He moaned inconsolably until the moment I offered him my right hand, in assurance of my worship of his memory. He especially feared a neighborhood gravedigger, enraged in his effort to break the skulls of all the dead. He retired in peace, promising me his immediate return to the native whirlwind of the sun.
I gave his cadaver to the fire in the morning of the next day.
I keep his ashes in an urn of incorruptible cypress, so I might add them to my own on the supreme day and that urn is the only treasure I have won on this involuntary journey.
Las formas del fuego (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
I had spent half the night within view of the cold constellations and came to gather myself and sleep in a cavity, in the manner of Orpheus.
I was encountering the companion of my fatigues less frequently. He was the son of a king precipitated from the throne and had come to me after traversing different climes.
He appeared in dreams and referred me to his death at the hands of some insensible goatherds. His body had been abandoned in a desert of stones. There, some beasts born of the ocean would crawl heavily.
He moaned inconsolably until the moment I offered him my right hand, in assurance of my worship of his memory. He especially feared a neighborhood gravedigger, enraged in his effort to break the skulls of all the dead. He retired in peace, promising me his immediate return to the native whirlwind of the sun.
I gave his cadaver to the fire in the morning of the next day.
I keep his ashes in an urn of incorruptible cypress, so I might add them to my own on the supreme day and that urn is the only treasure I have won on this involuntary journey.
Las formas del fuego (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
9.18.2010
La acedía del claustro / José Antonio Ramos Sucre
The Acidity of the Cloister
I am visited by the memory of beings wasted amid their merits for a more liberal fate. I revere Iphigenia’s saffron-colored garb, in which the vigorous fingers of the sacrificer are discovered.
Beatrice is dressed in a bloody tone when she appears, for the first time, in the presence of Dante and she is wrapped in an image of a vehement flame when she assists him in the sidereal layover of Paradise. The Florentine poet has chosen, in one moment or another, the devoted colors of martyrdom, suggesting the fleeting days of the heroine.
I sustain the memory of an unhappy being, of a girl desiccated by the tyranny of her presumptuous relatives. The pride of lineage had persuaded them to separate her from the century, where a brave page was waiting for her.
The trial of the captive had dissipated in the monotonous austerity of the convent. She would often flee from the confinement and would lean out a balcony, to enjoy a free view.
I was surveying a resplendent church at the moment the main holiday of the diocese was being foreseen. I saw the girl kneeling on the porphyry ground and in front of a silver altar.
She took me by the hand to indicate the image of her gentleman. She pointed out for me in a mosaic the effigy of a king dressed in dalmatica and prostrate at the foot of the cross.
Las formas del fuego (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
I am visited by the memory of beings wasted amid their merits for a more liberal fate. I revere Iphigenia’s saffron-colored garb, in which the vigorous fingers of the sacrificer are discovered.
Beatrice is dressed in a bloody tone when she appears, for the first time, in the presence of Dante and she is wrapped in an image of a vehement flame when she assists him in the sidereal layover of Paradise. The Florentine poet has chosen, in one moment or another, the devoted colors of martyrdom, suggesting the fleeting days of the heroine.
I sustain the memory of an unhappy being, of a girl desiccated by the tyranny of her presumptuous relatives. The pride of lineage had persuaded them to separate her from the century, where a brave page was waiting for her.
The trial of the captive had dissipated in the monotonous austerity of the convent. She would often flee from the confinement and would lean out a balcony, to enjoy a free view.
I was surveying a resplendent church at the moment the main holiday of the diocese was being foreseen. I saw the girl kneeling on the porphyry ground and in front of a silver altar.
She took me by the hand to indicate the image of her gentleman. She pointed out for me in a mosaic the effigy of a king dressed in dalmatica and prostrate at the foot of the cross.
Las formas del fuego (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
9.15.2010
El fugitivo / José Antonio Ramos Sucre
The Fugitive
I was anxiously fleeing, with sore feet, through the hinterlands. The snow flurry was dampening the black ground.
I was hoping to save myself in the forest of birches, incurved by the squall.
I was able to hide in the antrum caused by the uprooting of a tree. I composed the manifested roots so as to defend myself from the brown bear, and scattered the bats with shouts and hand claps.
I was bewildered by the blow I’d received on my head. I was suffering hallucinations and nightmares in the hiding place. I understood I would escape them by running further.
I crossed the quagmire covered with long, amplective reeds, and emerged into a second desert. I would abstain from lighting a campfire lest they reach me.
I would lie down in the open air, numbed by the cold. I was glimpsing the messengers of my methodical executioners. They were following on horseback, assisted by black dogs, with eyes of fire and ferocious howls. The riders displayed, for a crest, a squirrel’s tail.
I could make out, when I reached the border, the light of asylum, and I ran to crouch at the feet of my god.
His seated image listens with lowered eyes and smiles gently.
La torre de Timón (1925)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
I was anxiously fleeing, with sore feet, through the hinterlands. The snow flurry was dampening the black ground.
I was hoping to save myself in the forest of birches, incurved by the squall.
I was able to hide in the antrum caused by the uprooting of a tree. I composed the manifested roots so as to defend myself from the brown bear, and scattered the bats with shouts and hand claps.
I was bewildered by the blow I’d received on my head. I was suffering hallucinations and nightmares in the hiding place. I understood I would escape them by running further.
I crossed the quagmire covered with long, amplective reeds, and emerged into a second desert. I would abstain from lighting a campfire lest they reach me.
I would lie down in the open air, numbed by the cold. I was glimpsing the messengers of my methodical executioners. They were following on horseback, assisted by black dogs, with eyes of fire and ferocious howls. The riders displayed, for a crest, a squirrel’s tail.
I could make out, when I reached the border, the light of asylum, and I ran to crouch at the feet of my god.
His seated image listens with lowered eyes and smiles gently.
La torre de Timón (1925)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
9.12.2010
El fenicio / José Antonio Ramos Sucre
The Phoenician
In order to reach the ocean one had to navigate, for three continuous days, the placid river. I would stop my boat, when night concluded, under the custody of an egregious tree. The prow was defended by the head of a winged monster.
I was constantly studying the deserted banks and was unable to explain to myself the abandonment and indolence of the neighboring towns.
Toward the spring of the placid river, deep in the continent, stood the palace of a blind king, where an inexorable justice was being dictated.
The victims would descend, in unfortunate skiffs, to lose themselves in the sea’s width. The natives saw in the brackish waters the abyss from whence the night and its terror would emerge.
I traversed those places without any trouble, and was unable to see man or beast.
The sun was being born when I spotted, in the middle of the sea, the ship of my salvation, with origins in the south.
It belonged to some Greek traders, who had ventured, all the way there, seeking amber.
Las formas del fuego (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
In order to reach the ocean one had to navigate, for three continuous days, the placid river. I would stop my boat, when night concluded, under the custody of an egregious tree. The prow was defended by the head of a winged monster.
I was constantly studying the deserted banks and was unable to explain to myself the abandonment and indolence of the neighboring towns.
Toward the spring of the placid river, deep in the continent, stood the palace of a blind king, where an inexorable justice was being dictated.
The victims would descend, in unfortunate skiffs, to lose themselves in the sea’s width. The natives saw in the brackish waters the abyss from whence the night and its terror would emerge.
I traversed those places without any trouble, and was unable to see man or beast.
The sun was being born when I spotted, in the middle of the sea, the ship of my salvation, with origins in the south.
It belonged to some Greek traders, who had ventured, all the way there, seeking amber.
Las formas del fuego (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
9.10.2010
La virtuosa del clavecín / José Antonio Ramos Sucre
The Spinet Virtuoso
The mines are hidden under the rough ground. The residue fatigues the decimated, linear river. A hill differs brusquely from the unpleasant place. The visitor to the summit is distinguished by his reflection, according to a natural law, in the vapors of the sky.
The daughter of a pensive miner was guiding me through the dour territory and pointing out its wonders. She stopped applying herself, that morning, to the vague emotions of music and introduced me to a palace and its recondite chapel, underground. The recumbent statue of a distinguished beauty was displaying at its feet the steel of its sacrificed paladin. The chamber or treasure of the sacristy counted with a very singular piece of clothing from a reliquary of ivory figurines. This is where the effigies of the evangelists and the simulacra of the lion and the eagle, defenders of the lamb in a step from Apocalypse, would gather. I thought in an involuntary manner of the symbols for the elements, drawn in a reprobate writing by Hermes.
The miner’s daughter then took me out into free space and set me en route to the ruins of a fortress built by a descendent of Charlemagne. The fortress had merged, affecting a single form, with the mountain where it had been placed. I saw in that portent a vengeance from the Earth, the retaliation of a telluric divinity.
I recognized the majestic shadow of Goethe, before I felt it as my confidant. The august poet had meditated right there on the secrets of nature, referring them to the doctrines of the fable, to the symbols of superstition, and he had made an effort to console from life a nostalgic young man, of Werther’s lineage.
The miner’s daughter enjoyed referring me to the trifles of Goethe’s visit. She was insisting on the gravity and calmness of the salubrious genius and was aspiring to confer upon me that same indifference in the face of the world’s uncertainties merely by presenting me, now and in memory of her friendship, with the anemone of Broken, the flower of sortilege.
El cielo de esmalte (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
The mines are hidden under the rough ground. The residue fatigues the decimated, linear river. A hill differs brusquely from the unpleasant place. The visitor to the summit is distinguished by his reflection, according to a natural law, in the vapors of the sky.
The daughter of a pensive miner was guiding me through the dour territory and pointing out its wonders. She stopped applying herself, that morning, to the vague emotions of music and introduced me to a palace and its recondite chapel, underground. The recumbent statue of a distinguished beauty was displaying at its feet the steel of its sacrificed paladin. The chamber or treasure of the sacristy counted with a very singular piece of clothing from a reliquary of ivory figurines. This is where the effigies of the evangelists and the simulacra of the lion and the eagle, defenders of the lamb in a step from Apocalypse, would gather. I thought in an involuntary manner of the symbols for the elements, drawn in a reprobate writing by Hermes.
The miner’s daughter then took me out into free space and set me en route to the ruins of a fortress built by a descendent of Charlemagne. The fortress had merged, affecting a single form, with the mountain where it had been placed. I saw in that portent a vengeance from the Earth, the retaliation of a telluric divinity.
I recognized the majestic shadow of Goethe, before I felt it as my confidant. The august poet had meditated right there on the secrets of nature, referring them to the doctrines of the fable, to the symbols of superstition, and he had made an effort to console from life a nostalgic young man, of Werther’s lineage.
The miner’s daughter enjoyed referring me to the trifles of Goethe’s visit. She was insisting on the gravity and calmness of the salubrious genius and was aspiring to confer upon me that same indifference in the face of the world’s uncertainties merely by presenting me, now and in memory of her friendship, with the anemone of Broken, the flower of sortilege.
El cielo de esmalte (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
9.08.2010
El asedio / José Antonio Ramos Sucre
The Siege
The beloved stepped onto the balcony, after hearing the password.
The morning clears its jubilant face, shaking off the stupor of sleep, and turns drops of water, hanging from her hair, into a living garland of campaniles.
The old man disapproves of his daughter’s loves and he watches her steps. He conserves the malice of his youth, when he spied, from the orchestra, the court’s leisure in gardens disciplined by art.
He owes the security of his extreme days to the mercy of an ecclesiastical magnate. He lives near the countryside’s murmurs, noticing the chimeras of distance, the whims of air and light. He conjures from the heart of sensible instruments, to sink and die, light harmonies.
He scolds his daughter against the detours and assaults of a young man, insinuating hunter. He is an officer of free habits and privileged birth.
The old man witnesses once more the failure of his authority.
The girl executes on the piano the aria of the nightingale in love, a passage from an old music, of pastoral inspiration.
Las formas del fuego (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
The beloved stepped onto the balcony, after hearing the password.
The morning clears its jubilant face, shaking off the stupor of sleep, and turns drops of water, hanging from her hair, into a living garland of campaniles.
The old man disapproves of his daughter’s loves and he watches her steps. He conserves the malice of his youth, when he spied, from the orchestra, the court’s leisure in gardens disciplined by art.
He owes the security of his extreme days to the mercy of an ecclesiastical magnate. He lives near the countryside’s murmurs, noticing the chimeras of distance, the whims of air and light. He conjures from the heart of sensible instruments, to sink and die, light harmonies.
He scolds his daughter against the detours and assaults of a young man, insinuating hunter. He is an officer of free habits and privileged birth.
The old man witnesses once more the failure of his authority.
The girl executes on the piano the aria of the nightingale in love, a passage from an old music, of pastoral inspiration.
Las formas del fuego (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
9.05.2010
La zarza de los médanos / José Antonio Ramos Sucre
The Bramble on the Dunes
The country of my childhood was afflicted by a penitential aridity.
I was suffering the ascendancy of a washed-out sky and discerning the profile of a mystical tower.
The sober mountains with recondite peaks were preferring November’s cloak. The souls of the deceased, according to the thought of a pusillanimous creature, would retreat into their shyness, follow the vicissitudes of a perplexed river and fly on the ocean breeze.
We would conquer the fear of the visionary nights throughout the highlands, in the swift carriage. Some wilted reeds were interrupting the flight of the wheels and the indolent moon was pouring the enchantment of its silver nuances into a circle.
The infantile creature, object of my grief, loved in a fervid manner some balsamic flowers, of sidereal origin, imbued in the salty air. She was living in suspense of death’s announcement and was demanding them for her tomb. I have defended the wild leaves from the assault of the sands.
The sea flooded its limits to cover the unfortunate shore. A mute and transparent shadow guided the skiff of my health to the kingdom of dawn, towards unequivocal happiness. I was waking from enchanted dreams and perceiving in the air of the lodgings the effluvium of the fragrant undergrowth.
El cielo de esmalte (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
The country of my childhood was afflicted by a penitential aridity.
I was suffering the ascendancy of a washed-out sky and discerning the profile of a mystical tower.
The sober mountains with recondite peaks were preferring November’s cloak. The souls of the deceased, according to the thought of a pusillanimous creature, would retreat into their shyness, follow the vicissitudes of a perplexed river and fly on the ocean breeze.
We would conquer the fear of the visionary nights throughout the highlands, in the swift carriage. Some wilted reeds were interrupting the flight of the wheels and the indolent moon was pouring the enchantment of its silver nuances into a circle.
The infantile creature, object of my grief, loved in a fervid manner some balsamic flowers, of sidereal origin, imbued in the salty air. She was living in suspense of death’s announcement and was demanding them for her tomb. I have defended the wild leaves from the assault of the sands.
The sea flooded its limits to cover the unfortunate shore. A mute and transparent shadow guided the skiff of my health to the kingdom of dawn, towards unequivocal happiness. I was waking from enchanted dreams and perceiving in the air of the lodgings the effluvium of the fragrant undergrowth.
El cielo de esmalte (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
9.04.2010
El error vespertino / José Antonio Ramos Sucre
The Vespertine Error
Some wild horsemen were escorting me during the visit to the country of legendary ruins. We stopped to marvel at the arabesques and profiles of a bridge with lancet arches.
We invaded the fateful city along an avenue of violated cypresses. I was in ecstasy from the atmosphere of purity, within view of a sky with ideal tinges. The image of a shining minaret was being drawn on the river of indolent lymphs.
I was making progress, pilgrim of disenchantment, in the implausible calm.
A nuptial entourage, proclaimed by the sounds of a sensible melody, woke me from the reverie, returned me to the presence of misfortune. The girl was heading towards captivity in a rough carriage.
I tried to follow the subtle vestiges of the entourage by the light of the ether twilight and found myself alone and blind in the circuit of some identical tombs.
El cielo de esmalte (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
Some wild horsemen were escorting me during the visit to the country of legendary ruins. We stopped to marvel at the arabesques and profiles of a bridge with lancet arches.
We invaded the fateful city along an avenue of violated cypresses. I was in ecstasy from the atmosphere of purity, within view of a sky with ideal tinges. The image of a shining minaret was being drawn on the river of indolent lymphs.
I was making progress, pilgrim of disenchantment, in the implausible calm.
A nuptial entourage, proclaimed by the sounds of a sensible melody, woke me from the reverie, returned me to the presence of misfortune. The girl was heading towards captivity in a rough carriage.
I tried to follow the subtle vestiges of the entourage by the light of the ether twilight and found myself alone and blind in the circuit of some identical tombs.
El cielo de esmalte (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
9.01.2010
La taberna / José Antonio Ramos Sucre
The Tavern
The libertines would fire off an abundant laugh when kicking, in different ways, the landlady’s cap. Their drunkenness, the effect of a mortal brew, would become entangled with derangement. The flame of the reflectors would imitate the tinge of absinthe.
A red imp would fly over the empty glasses that had been knocked over.
The oldest of the libertines had become phlegmatic and adipose. His companions would try to irritate him with entertaining nicknames. But they achieved nothing with the veteran of licentiousness and bacchanalia. He had tossed from himself the buffoon’s hood with little bells.
Someone had flung a lit match onto the sleepy faun and startled his clumsiness and turned it into affliction and fear. The skeletons formed a festive wheel around him and tried to refresh him with sprinklings of water. They witnessed, astonished, the ignition of the drunk, a case that has been marveled at and even denied by science.
El cielo de esmalte (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
The libertines would fire off an abundant laugh when kicking, in different ways, the landlady’s cap. Their drunkenness, the effect of a mortal brew, would become entangled with derangement. The flame of the reflectors would imitate the tinge of absinthe.
A red imp would fly over the empty glasses that had been knocked over.
The oldest of the libertines had become phlegmatic and adipose. His companions would try to irritate him with entertaining nicknames. But they achieved nothing with the veteran of licentiousness and bacchanalia. He had tossed from himself the buffoon’s hood with little bells.
Someone had flung a lit match onto the sleepy faun and startled his clumsiness and turned it into affliction and fear. The skeletons formed a festive wheel around him and tried to refresh him with sprinklings of water. They witnessed, astonished, the ignition of the drunk, a case that has been marveled at and even denied by science.
El cielo de esmalte (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)