La ensenada / José Antonio Ramos Sucre

The Inlet

In that circle, defended by an amphitheater of mountains and with an opening to a promising sea, the innocence of the primitive world had taken refuge.
     The sky would beautify itself with the soft and withered tones of autumn.
     The natives were light and frugal and they would idle with the tribute of the holm oaks and the thankful vines.
     The vines were dragging their lazy shoots along the ground and on their branches they were reproducing the color of the pearl and the amber, treasures of the neighboring port.
     The holm oaks were reposing and lulling the sleep of the august bards, rejuvenated by wine and certain of a blessed longevity. They didn’t dare with the exploits of the young men on the distant sea, full of mobile fish.
     The women called themselves sisters of the trees and would adopt the son of the bear and the orphaned cub wolf. They ruled by means of the marvelous gift of sound judgment and foresight.
     Those men were persuaded by their inviolable and unending happiness.
     Homer had died in their arms.

Las formas del fuego (1929)

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

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