We will pass
Eternal passersby through ourselves,
no landscape but the landscape that is us.
Fernando Pessoa
Caracas lives without us. We are accidental passersby. She ignores us in her illness. Her illness: we, parasites, anthill that undermines. She knows that we will pass and others will come.
This city cradles us without complacency, with whatever love she has in her, atomized in wait of better days, promise with overtones of eternity.
In her course, the Avila mountain keeps her blasphemies inside wrapped by the psychedelia of his changing colors. He stoically tolerates rains and fire and patiently silences his curses. Our spirit clings to the colossal mountain, its height, a conclusive prayer, definitive vision to overcome absences.
We will be followed by others.
Like predators, they will look to the mountain for particles of love.
They too will pass.
a new venezuelan poetry 