Isabel / José Antonio Ramos Sucre


I had received from the sky the present of an unfortunate beauty. Her benign eyes opened, full of fright, to the wonder of the world and a star of matutinal light, enchantment of hardened archangels, was extinguished at that same hour in the infinite. I was keeping a vigil at the margin of her crib and conceiving happy thoughts to brighten her future.
     I admitted her and kept her in my arms for the purpose of saving her childhood from the examples of the earth and from then on I directed her fervent voice to sing the agony of the Via Crucis and the resistance of the martyrs.
     I would retire on the vortex of a hill to watch over and defend her leisure in a recondite valley. The elegant lily of the parabola would alternate with the rose bush born and flowering in the same night on the tomb of Isolde.
     I followed her to an interview in the dawn hour, near a transparent river. She was enraptured when she focused on the discourse of an old man, a doctor or gentleman in the celestial kingdom, and got lost in the admiration of the sign of the cross, painted suddenly in the air. The hymn of some virgins was inviting her with instancy from a shining vessel.
     She spoke my name amid praises and promises before transfiguring and losing herself in space and in this manner she was able to incorporate me from the floor, where I had been toppled by the feeling of her absence.

El cielo de esmalte (1929)

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

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