El tejedor de mimbres / José Antonio Ramos Sucre

The Wicker Weaver

A spectral bird, image of grief and sacrifice, was flying between November’s smoke and amber. I was losing myself in the contemplation of the monotonous flight.
     Indolent habits, a fondness for daydreaming, were impeding my rescue from misery. I was hiding in the undergrowth of a marshy river.
     A seraphic beauty would appear to interrupt my idleness and point out for me the ocean path. I would venture to gather some brackish herbs and, thinking upon the attire of her person, I would strip them of their ivory flowers, emitted suddenly on the most protracted day of the year.
     I assisted her wedding party from afar, lost in the barefoot crowd. The clement maiden was dressed in mourning and the lights of the basilica, an Italian jewel, were surrounding her with a faint aura. She had been born for the captivation of an ideal love.
     She passed from this life shortly. Her horse threw her to the ground, when she was setting off on a fortuitous trip.
     I penetrated the living room of her home, that very week of sobbing. The solemn relatives were wondering about the lineage of her ivory flowers, gathered on a velvet cushion. They were unable to comprehend their origin from an invisible world.

El cielo de esmalte (1929)

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

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