Vision of the North
The mass of snow navigates to the impulse of the frenzied sea, displaying the iris in each diaphanous angle. It trembles as if it were shaken from below by the push of titanic chests; but the trepidation does not drive off the bird, lofty and retired to the highest point of the wandering block; beforehand it exalts its strange behavior, as though it were a centinel that sights danger, observing a wide zone.
The fleeting gusts don’t manage to ruffle the plumage nor does the crash of the waves frighten the immobile head of the pilgrim bird, whose repose figures the trance of the penitents. It sails imperturbable through the uncertain ocean, beneath the discordant atmosphere, interrogating provisional horizons.
The bird emits no song at all, but rather conserves the fearful muteness of a bad omen that is exalted in legends and tragedies by the apparition and conduct of prestigious and vengeful characters, those who by the abandonment of laughter and words exclude humanitarian sympathy and familiar simplicity.
Returning from a long journey, warm aromas and vague rumors circulate, and waves roll embraced by a flagrant sun, the ones that attack and crumble the bulk of ice, with the stubborn intention of sirens opposed to the path of an ambitious boat.
The panorama diversifies from this point onwards with the mirth of burning colors, and with the delight of vivacious trees and noisy beaches, revealing for the bird its misplacement, keeping it from knowing torrid distances, recommending its return to the native plateau; the bird takes off in a long flight, and turns to preside, from a crystalline height, the concert of polar solitude.
La torre de Timón (1925)
{ José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Obra completa, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1989 }
No comments:
Post a Comment