Divagation
I had waited for the spring equinox, the traditional day for the flowering of the daffodil.
The flower of metamorphosis had been honored in the annals of a just people with contrary luck.
I wanted to visit the relics of their home and advanced through the hollow of a dry river. From the languid branches of a thicket a few birds of bothersome warbling were taking flight.
I reclined near a decapitated statue. Its right hand gripped an ash tree spear, in accordance with its usage in the Iliad, and its round shield lay on the ground, shattered in pieces. On the socle read the name of an immortal artist.
I received the reward for my efforts and for my veneration of the vestiges of a simple age. A woman, a traveler in a car pulled by lions, invited me to her side and inspired a living confidence in me. Her image, with the same apparatus and decoration of the wild animals, adorned a hidden fountain and her name was that of the country during the most fortunate centuries.
She was pointing out for me the sidereal courses and speaking of the ulterior days, reserved for the bonanza. Her discourse had anticipated the arrival of night, with a phosphorescent canopy.
She altered at will the appearance of the circle and left me at the start of a fertile plain, where the beings offered themselves by the measure of man’s exiguity and the colors of the clouds were painted with the invalid tints of the matutinal twilight.
A horse with two white feet, of solar lineage, was dominating the territory and scanning it from a height. Its bronze voice and the deep sound of its steps were determining in the distance the oblique escape of the wolf with the cursed barking.
Las formas del fuego (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
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