XX / Eduardo Mariño


This sea lashes my desire, forcing me to feel once again the shameful, unnameable grief I carry in the medulla of my face; second skin that embitters my laughter and stirs my tears.

This sea, cruel bath of ironies shrouding me.

I remember this death as having fallen many years ago, while it happens before my eyes: the extended curve of the aquatic dagger, the moans and anguish.

They’re precise, like nails dug into eyes, the voices of almost neglected, almost human oblivion.

I’m trapped by a supreme voice with its romance, its devious lunar horns to the west of the glance, in the sustained fast I commemorate with this crystalline blood, filled with the song of glass and metal.

Broken brotherhood; incipient transmigration it hurts to hear under these seas.

A word dies in front of me and its tense features carry me to the original embrace.

I have lost so much time hunting solutions from the sidewalk across the street; and I deny that I’m living a farce. Is this sea-ocean not a return, an inverted ascesis?

Your mistakes and economies of anger have pummeled me; also, the first nighttime rainstorm in April, always waiting for a minor interval of nostalgia that might intensify its energies, splashing the immutable columns of the sky with its ocean bellows in an angular cascade; constant sign of a foreseen extinction, déjà vu of a wandering soul, meditative amid my ruins, spread out beneath this vulgar and distressing wind.

Mirage, stigma, curse of a couple centuries, features in the clay, traces in the water that edify a silent race amid its incessant throb; eye drops, inside them, a fugitive surveillance that salutes the halos in the fireflies and hallucinates a rainstorm at the bottom of its misfortune.

On the twenty-fifth night after the solstice, I am thinking you, coming barefoot under the rain, drenched in my sadness.

Por si los dioses mueren (1995)

{ Eduardo Mariño, A la salida del fastuoso recital, Caracas: Monte Ávila Editores, 2009 }

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