Clock of Princes
The deposed king is staying in the palace of the one threatened by the same fate. They recall and comment, famed old men, the vicissitudes of their respective careers. They stroll the platform for some fresh air by the river.
The waters, born of an invisible spring, hide the frontier margin.
A minion spy interrupts them. He displays the appearance of a servant supplied with a flabellum. He arrives under the pretext of driving away a wasp.
The priests notice the reluctant sovereign, an enthusiast of the amenity and tolerance of an overflowing civilization. They maintain friendships with hardened tribes, open to insinuation, adapted to the precipice and thickets of their mountainous home.
The wild adepts appreciate the exercise of arms above refinement and leisure.
They surround the city and assault it where a sentinel came down from his post to the countryside, in solicitude of a forbidden love.
Columns of quick smoke are born from the disseminated fires and proclaim them.
The kings witness, resigned, the end of an exhausted era.
Las formas del fuego (1929)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
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