MY FATHER THE EMIGRANT and it stops you at the foot of black birches.

Moon deer are running

for the ancient memory,
and in your silence flames of the heart fall.
I
We come from the night and towards the night we go.
Behind lies the land wrapped in its vapors,
where the almond tree, the boy, and the leopard live. IV
The days are left behind, with lakes, snow, reindeer, What I feel in my blood like an hourglass,
with arid volcanoes, with enchanted jungles near some portrait, of the thread and of the salt shaker;
where the blue shadows of fright dwell. what I hear in my blood like a murmur of the day,
Behind are the tombs at the foot of the cypress trees, when a night butterfly
alone in the sadness of distant stars. comes to kiss the shadow of our heart;
Glories are left behind like torches that extinguish what I hear in my blood like chords of mourning,
secular bursts. when everything shuts down and everything is a yesterday,
Behind are the doors complaining in the wind. with faces, with ashes and hands in the shadow;
Behind remains the anguish with celestial mirrors. what I hear in my blood like grain falling
Behind, time remains like a drama in man: in the dim light of the rooms,
giver of life, giver of death. where the mirror of sunken confidence
The time that raises and wears down columns, vainly destroys the masks of man:
and murmurs in the ancient waves of the sea. what I hear in my blood like flutes of the sun,
Behind lies the light bathing the mountains, when my children dance around my existence
the children's parks and the white altars. like on a distant vineyard hill;
But also the night with aching cities, when thought transforms my secrets
the everyday night, the one that is not yet night, in abysses of ivy,
but a brief rest that trembles in the fireflies and I lean my forehead upon the nocturnal wine;
or it passes through souls with blows of agony. when I feel my steps on the ground,
The night that descends again towards the light, and when I say: earth,
awakening the flowers in silent valleys, and I know that I am here illuminating myself,
refreshing the lap of water in the mountains, loving her and obeying her command, which is to exist,
launching the horses towards blue banks, it is what descends in secret towards my death:
while eternity, among golden lights, rumor that holds me and draws me
advances silently through sidereal meadows. in my old portrait,
with a hawk on the shoulder,
II in the twilight of your olive groves:
We come from the night and towards the night we go. framework of consciousness,
The steps in the dust, the fire of the blood, enigma of old walls,
the sweat from the brow, the hand on the shoulder, fall of light in sadness,
the cry in the memory, heno in the afternoon, clouds of solitude,
Everything remains closed by rings of shadow. night fig trees in the form of skeletons,
With ancient cymbals, time lifts us up. glance towards the shadow of the jaguar.
With cymbals, with wine, with laurel branches. We are not inhabitants of the light.
But in the soul, somber chords fall. There are tongues of darkness and burning signs
Sorrow digs with wolf's claws. dancing around us.
Listen inward to the infinite echoes, Our gaze falls on mourning rings,
the horns of the enigma in your distances. in fear rushes, in silver stars.
In the rusted iron there are glimmers in which the soul The forehead is lost, like a cold gust.
desperate falls, by the nighttime humidity of the scarecrows.
and stones that have passed through the hand of man, When will my dark walking leave you?
and solitary sands, Behind lie abysses in which my eyes fall.
and laments of water in shadowy channels. The man is of the night that follows him,
Claim, yelling into the abyss, dream that the sun defends,
the inner gaze that moves towards death! parenthesis of uncertain wonder,
In our hours lie reflections of heliotropes, image that shatters the darkness.
passionate hands, lightning of the dream. My mother still gazes at your portrait
Come to the deserts and listen to your voice! and in her white hair a distant glow manifests.
Come to the deserts and shout to the heavens! Here on Earth I am, here on Earth,
The heart is a secret loneliness. and in your death, dispersed in my senses.
Only love rests between two hands, And the eyes persist, the embers of danger
and descends in the seed with a dark rumor, and the habit of walking through the sounds,
like a black torrent, like a blue aerolite, for the humidity, the laughter, the darkness,
with fireflies trembling flying in a mirror, where the flames dance
or with the screams of beasts that burst their veins like reminiscences of deceased relatives.
in the hot nights of sleepless solitudes. And everything advances in me and everything falls, and everything is a rumor,
But the seed brings both visible and invisible death. a coming closer and loving, and a suffering for the loved one,
Call, call, call your lost face and take everything to the dream
on the shores of the great shadow! and make the earth a dream.
And it is what is burning, sounding like thunder
III about a boy,
Ecstatic lightning between two nights, from your hard life, from your lonely death,
fish that swims among evening clouds, your death resembling a plain,
heartbeat of brightness, trapped memory, where the night bends its slowness of stars,
trembling water lily over the dark void, with a rumor of helmets, of stones, of skeletons,
dream in front of the shadow: that is what we are. with guitars fallen beside the heart,
The day moves silently through the stagnant water, with a devil's couplet,
bending the reeds towards boats of oblivion. with the sulfur of Tyrant Aguirre
The silent soul trembles in the violets. dancing on the hills,
Aren't we a secret kept by the hours? and distant ancient lightning
Look how in the afternoon grass in a dense horizon with shadows of deluge,
the gaze is a sparkle of orange blossoms, and the wind that resonates over the deaf drum
how the being hides from the hot land,
in the gentle sigh of the foliage. of the caiman's water and the poisonous tooth.
Something always closes around our forehead. My father, father of my hurricane. And of my poetry.
The cold of the stones runs through our blood.
A whisper of nard descends through the valleys.
And always the man alone, under the sun and the thunder, V
pursued by voices and whips and teeth. Sometimes I fall into myself, as if coming from you,
The man always alone, with his gaze, his own, and I gather in an immobile sadness;
with their memories, theirs, and with their hands, theirs. like a flag that has forgotten the wind.
The man questioning his silent shadows. Angels of twilight pass through my senses
Listen: I call you from my solitude, and the nocturnal circles slowly imprison me.
from my sighing regions of palm trees, We come from the night and towards the night we go.
open to the luminous signs of the sky. Listen. I call you from a stone clock,
The wind tangles with sidereal mists, where the shadows fall, where silence descends.
 because this is how our steps are on the days:
VI towards the mountains halted in the twilights;
The glossy sailboat of death towards the cities that await the night with mourning and joy,
walk your silence through my dark seas, toasting the bread, preparing dramas in the chambers,
between the glimmers of a black water in waves, pouring red wine into the shadows;
where sailors of another time sing, to the ports where the boats give rest to the wanderers;
drowned in the night, surrendered to the seaweed
what the shadows carry. towards the small red paths,
And you always come to me from the oblivion, where the body of the donkey hurts us,
earthly adventurer with ancient beards. where the beggar's feet ache,
Your shoes still sound on the bricks where the song of the sad cinchona hurts us;
and on the sands of deserted bays, towards our future home,
with buried chests and coins, with the gentle whisper of the orange tree
and with distant rocks where the stars fall, in whose shadow we will be in the gaze of the son,
where the auroras advance trembling, like in an hour of heaven,
in the midst of the shadows of the cold, of premonition and anguish.
and of sea pines, You came, and the world was beneath your steps,
and signs and spectral colors, and beneath your nights, and beneath your solitudes.
and the shadows of the mothers of boatmen, Yes, your existence had created its hurricane skies.
calling between her cloths and her hair, its tumultuous waters, its cloudy distances,
and their confused voices, and the storms were stirring the seas of your heart
and her tears losing themselves in the sand, with thunder and fallen stars
and seagulls in a row, flying towards another world, in the dark solitudes of the soul,
toward distances of dark blues and blacks, with shipwrecks and women's voices
towards a day of mystery, lost in the expanse of waves and countries.
where the man screams at his death. You dreamt of ghostly ships in the shadows,
A big dog follows you, those who carry flags of mourning
the faithful and slow dog of our distance. and they travel towards the ports of rotten oils
In your gloom, abandoned boats shine. and old waste.
With the gusts, your deep lonelinesses groan. And the fury raised waves in the darkness of your death,
And among the seaweed, the serious dawn trembles. chased by moonlit glows,
You drift away on your journey like a light drizzle, like an oily black surface
like the rumor of ending in the snails. with flights of slow shining birds,
In my solitude, I keep your deep solitudes. there where the stars drip their blue liquors,
The days come from you in that space of the devouring mystery,
sounding in the guitars of oblivion. with illuminated islands in our solitude.
For you, I am the man, the bearer of the fire. Your youth called to the cities of the world,
For you, my hand raises the mirror that reflects the mountain. to the winds that blow against old walls,
Your footprints, your fable and your climate were coming towards me, to the people who live in the dark mines,
and I still see you coming from death, to sailors who lie beneath the crosses of the sea.
father of the oar, father of the heavy sack, You, the traveler, the insomniac, the discontented,
father of rage and song. the one who raised his hands towards the lightning,
the one who saw the bays pass by
VII like the serene and misty shore of sadness.
Your village on the round hill beneath the wheat air, You knew how to endure distances, always so close to the heart.
in front of the sea with fishermen at dawn, You knew how to arrive.
I raised towers and silver olives. And you were there, the anonymous, the dark, the devoured,
The almond trees of spring were swaying on the grass, lying in the hot nights,
the labrador like a young prophet, like the sacks, like the barrels,
and the little shepherdess with her face in the middle of a handkerchief. at the shore of the great ships.
And the woman from the sea was coming up with a fresh basket of sardines. A peasant would offer you a shot of aguardiente.
It was a joyful poverty under the eternal blue, And it was still the night dark as a drum,
with the small cherry vendors in the squares, wild like the legs, mine and the teeth of the tiger.
with the maidens around the fountains The night, the night filled with whispers of tamarinds,
moved noisily by the breeze of the chestnut trees, of coconut trees swayed by a breeze
in the twilight with sparks from the blacksmith, that would take you back to another time,
among the carpenter's songs, at the time of your village with bells,
among the strong studded shoes, of your summer seas
and in the alleys of worn stones, with barcaroles near dawn.
where shadows of purgatory wander. You were sleeping under the stars of another world.
Your village went alone under the daylight, My father, father of my universal anguish.
with ancient walnut trees of silent shade, And of my poetry.
on the banks of the cherry tree, the elm, and the fig tree.
On their stone walls, the hours were paused
their evening reflections of secrets, IX
and the flutes of the west approached the soul. You left in my existence the nostalgia of the world.
Between the sun and its roofs, the pigeons were flying. I love the windows that tint the twilights,
Between being and autumn passed the sadness. I contemplate the prints of some field in the north,
Your village was lonely like in the light of a tale, I raise the villages to snowy skies.
with bridges, with gypsies and bonfires in the nights and a silent reindeer stands in my silence.
of silent snow. I die against the pines from icy gusts,
From the serene blue, the stars called, birds of winter approach my hands,
and to the family fire, surrounded by legends, and an air of beggars spreads sad choirs.
Christmas was coming, I don't know if at some hour of solitary flakes,
with bread and honey and wine, those that sometimes fall into gray cemeteries,
with strong mountaineers, goat herders, loggers. about tattered shadows, in evening squares,
Your village was approaching the choirs of heaven, wait for me in some distant place on Earth.
and their bells were going towards the solitudes, For you, who walked with your heavy clothes,
where the pines moan in the wind of ice, among the plant skeletons of the cold,
and the train whistled in the distance, towards the tunnels, I wander by the shore of a silent lake,
towards the plains with buffaloes, hearing a bell from ancient millers.
toward the cities smelling of fruits, toward the ports,
while the sea gave its moonlit glows, X
you will go beyond the mandolins, What fire of darkness, what circle of thunder,
where migratory birds start to disappear. Did it fall on your forehead when you saw this land?
And the world was beating in your heart. Black coasts passed, inflamed bushes,
You came from a hill of the Bible, boats with pineapples, coconuts, bananas, cherimoyas,
from the sheep, from the harvests, about a dark sea with jellyfish and sea anemones.
my father, father of wheat, father of poverty. And roads, vultures, hamlets passed by,
And of my poetry. and you saw a blind donkey tied to a window,
and a child without relatives passing through the plain,
and a cowboy calling the shadow of the cattle.
VIII A warm door opened for your life.
When you were coming, you were coming towards death, The waters called you with their dark tongues,
the birds with cries, and suffering animals on the night of the tamarinds?
that cry long in the high foliage. Guitars fall silent at the mysterious breath of death,
And you arrived at the door of the wizard's house, and the voices fall silent, and only the children still cannot rest.
from whose typing hang thick purple leaves, They are the inhabitants of the night,
poisonous seeds, bird hearts. when silence spreads among the stars,
And you saw the molasses flow in the sugar mills. and the pet moves through the corridors,
And the bull that advances towards death in the afternoon, and the night birds visit the village church,
tied to two horses. where all the dead go through,
And you saw the water snake, twisted, where bloody saints dwell.
that in the twilight drowns the thirsty cow. Through the shadows run headless horses,
And you walked at night among the butterflies and the sands of the street go to the edge,
in mourning, who visit the shadowy ranches, where terror gathers its fire animals.
where yellow fever resides. And it is the night that shelters existence alone,
And you saw dancing flames, the flames of the Tyrant, in the insomniac child, in the tired ox,
followed by the song of the lookout that walks, in the insect that defends itself in the leaf litter,
that advances, mysterious, alongside the man's step. on the curve of the hills, in the glows
And you slept among ants, spiders, and scorpions. of the rocks and the ferns against the stars,
And large lilac flowers, with sidereal glimmers, in the mystery in which I hear you
they opened in your dream of ignited diamonds. like a vast loneliness of my heart.
My father, father of my shadows.
XI And of my poetry.
For you I know that the oar returning from the horizon,
and the axe that at the contact with the tree XIV
filled with resonance the day, Rough tiger leather,
and the hammer that crushes the iron starred slow arched back,
and shapes it like a dense flame, 5 strong insomniac head,
and the hand that kneads the clay for the dwelling, teeth stopped in the shadow.
and she kneads the flour for the children, A plant wind licks the rocks,
and for the children of our children, moist flames roam through the river,
and the scalpel that transmits blood to the stone, and tense steps sink
lifting her gentle gesture in the twilight, the night flowers in memory.
and the forehead bent over the wonder, XV
They conclude the day. Yes, the night held in the large thick leaves,
For you I know that each step is solitary, in the vines that descend to the black waters,
like a memory, like a moment, like slow serpents enchanted by the witches,
like the death of each one. in the glimmers that flee like blue breaths,
For you I know that friendship is sacred, giving a fleeting tremor to the hidden flowers,
and what is worth more than a tree with fruits he gave you the ancient secret of my fiery land.
what brilliant gold coins. You touched the roots, the stones, and the fruits,
But here I am struggling with blood, image, and lament, you embraced the trees, you ran through swamps,
gathered in my gesture as a dweller emerging from the night. you entered the caves, you wounded the armadillo,
For you, I distance myself from the wheels of luxury, like a knight in polished armor,
of the golden serpent, of the polished crystal spider, lost in the twilight of the jungle and the river.
of the curtain of blue butterflies. Did you see the early mornings of the hot rains?
The earth calls us closer to itself, and you heard the whispering of trees and animals,
closer to the dream in which we see her. that eternal claim of the land in the night
Lonely gusts approach my forehead, that sometimes cries and screams and snores in the panther.
where the night dwells trembling in the jasmines. And you saw the burst of the great seeds,
Fleeting glimmers pass through my bones, and the birth of the leaf and the opening of the flower.
while I listen to my steps in the dust. And you spoke, surrounded by astonished deer:
I advance, I shout, I fall, and I lift myself up. Protect me, oh wonderful land!
my abandoned body. I will be with you worshiping your rocks
The shadows stir at the blow of blood, that in the twilight have the faces of new gods.
with the thunder that mourns valleys and mountains, I come from the ports, from the dark houses,
and in the humidity, it ignites knives, eyes, bodies where the January wind destroys poor children,
and hands that undermine the dark solitude. where bread has ceased to be for men.
I walk through rubble, I pick up an injured child I come from the war, from the tears and from the cross.
that endlessly calls against the walls. Protect me, oh wonderful land!
I am looking for bread, they are chasing me.
And my knees bleed from long early mornings. XVI
Father of my footprints, All the hills rolled toward the place you were looking for.
father of my nightly sadness. The trees swayed, swayed in the solitude of your soul,
And about my poetry. like a memory of the centuries in the wind,
as a reminder of the world's solitude,
XII when the fire descended down the chest of the mountains
I always find you, I hear your voice, and the reptiles watched the sweaty flowers.
in my most secret hour, when the gems of the soul shine, They were swaying, swaying in the silence of your soul.
like wounds from the light of the senses, They waved, they waved in the silence of the red earth,
when time calls me to the chords of the day, where the man hides
and wildflowers ignite around my being; to kill the timid animal.
when the night comes driving dense colors across the sky, They waved, they waved in the scorching atmosphere of the hummingbird,
like battles of paradise or sacred announcements; it spins, and spins, and flees and spins in its iridescent flight.
when the field laments in its animals; They undulated, they undulated, murmuring,
when the mother cries and over her head in the wide solitudes,
the night spills its sorrow and the desire to be alone; where the guacharaca sings announcing the rain.
when I feel it coming in through the window, They waved, they waved, and the bulls and the horses ran,
to the quiet solitude of sadness, frightened by the resonant wind of the fire,
the air of the nearby trees. towards a desolate sunset.
Your life and your death, yours forever, They were waving, waving, and red reflections were falling.
how is it for the child who drowns in a lost well, in the dark waters of the jungle,
in me they gather and spread me across the earth, where the squirrel, the capybara, and the tapir drink.
in that moment that stops illuminating the memory, They were waving, they were waving, the trees in your life,
like the lightning that ignites a sacred horizon, here, on the earth, here, in your effort,
at the moment when day and night come together, here, where some lonely man,
full of the depths of the eternal, among the coals of burned trees,
in a dense agitation of dark celestial horses plant the cassava and the banana,
that grow larger for the spawn of a powerful enigma, search for the poison in the leaves
about the mountains, about the cities and knows the mystery of vegetables.
and the thoughtful foreheads. And it was a slow undulating day,
Father of my solitude. a wave towards the banks of the rivers
And of my poetry. with slow boats and caimans in the yellow waters.
A slow undulation towards the horizon,
XIII where the night gathers men with their guitars,
Who calls me, who lights up leopard eyes among their homes of blackened palm,
under the solitary silence of the stars. looking for the place where I can say:
Here I live, here I am the man.
Yes, you were going, step by step, with your heavy feet,
Seventeen your feet that made the animals run,
There they welcomed you, and there was your night. to fly the birds towards celestial twilight bridges.
You were coming, coming with your life and your memories, You were the one who answered without anyone calling you.
with your voice and your little yellow papers, Who was calling you? Were you perhaps among ghosts?
with your joy and your sorrows, Or was your memory populated with ghosts?
but no one knew where you were coming from. Or were you fleeing from something of yours, from something you abhorred within you?
The guitars were playing in the shadow of your heart, Hairy insects were approaching your legs,
and there was aguardiente in strong fruit shells, snakes, scorpions, worms like birds
the firewater that ignites the veins just out of the egg,
in the shape of lightning over a murky gallop of horses. animals with weeping, teeth with fire.
And the joropo on the harp stirred a new melody in you, But you were the one who marched, the resistant,
And there was a new sadness for you, and a new joy. mute in the nostalgia of whispering olive groves,
Those people were your people. from serene hills with apple trees that stretched until sunset,
One day you were leaving with her in the heat of a civil war. to the last grasses, where an angelic light escapes,
moving sparkles of paradise in the distant foliage of the soul.
You were here in the middle of the hot vapor
that rises from the boiling stagnant waters,
Eighteen from the thick green sludge with frogs
The day of green water was arriving, and round lilac flowers partially opened,
thick as a dark canvas with flowers. from the fruit and from the leaf that rot
Stagnant water with fever germs, with insect and reptile eggs.
the solitary water, lost, abandoned, In the midst of the steam rising among the reeds,
where the still heron gazes at its sorrow. among the vines and the yellow fruits of the fever.
And it was the day without bread, the day without answer. In the midst of the vapor that moistens our backs
The day of the dead peasants over the dry grass. our shoulders and our forehead.
And your life was again a return, In the midst of the haze that waits for the night
a return to days and nights, to move your blue visitors,
toward the place you sought in your desperation. between the eyes of the leopard and the owl.
You were here, alone, devoured, silent,
with your bottle of liquor for the night,
XIX with your dog and your stars from another world.
I point you out in the noon of anguish, My father, father of my blood.
between trees and thorns and cicadas, And of my poetry.
between tongues of fire under the sun,
there where a horse walks through our sadness, XX
and falls, and dies, with eyes open to the sky. Here the night leaves the reeds
I point you out in the solitude of illusory dances, with bloody reflections,
of lost currents, of subtle serpents, with purple waves in twilight
when time crushes its crystals and mirrors, and scaled armor.
and the birds flee from the great pit of fire, A deep fight
where the fruit bursts, the ear, the bark, lost bodies in the shadow.
where the skull shines sonorously It is a water of oblivion, panting,
on her yellow forehead of a clean, burning sky,
that they lament lukewarm waters, that rests in sunk lightning
what they call hoarse voices, about slimy trembling mud slugs.
echoes of the caves. It is a water of slow circles of agony,
And everything falls into the silence of the earth, with eyes in the dream,
from the red earth with large red ants, from bitter flowers open among the stones.
that slowly advance through their clear cities, It is the water of a lonely soul,
with its heavy load of circular leaves. of the man who endures the boundaries,
And everything is a tremor of light sheets, leaving footprints on the earth, embers of the heart,
of hot mercury, voices to the plain where a demon sings,
and the curve of the hills becomes austere, where the day advances with humid heat,
serious, shining with high and sonorous geometries
under the circular flight of the hawks, of aquatic birds,
slow, almost motionless in the hot atmosphere, what figures go red coasts blue.
like sustained by the winds of the centuries. In the distant song of the oriole,
I point you out at the hour of the turtle dove's song, among the flowers of nearby brightness,
hidden in the reverberating expanse, among the frogs that resemble leaves
when the bull moos in the midst of our distant melancholy, and they close their green eyes in the light,
when we question ourselves: "who answers me now?" a persistent smoke rises; and one can hear someone say:
when in the adobe and palm house The shadows set the corn on fire.
people remain silent with their heads down in the smoke of tobacco, And in the distance, the mountain of a god howls.
in the stupor of his dark poverty Here the man sees the year
between jars, ashes, and wooden spoons. like a slow fury of hills,
When the river drags gloomy vegetation along with us, where the bush hides its fruit and its poison.
like the remnants of our mournful dreams, Here life passes like a murky summer,
in which black boats traverse lights, waves, shouts. while the sky sends forth archangels of fire
I point you out on the earth, in the midst of your own will. about the herb fields,
The oily and purple leaf of the castor bean, where the bull sniffs and blows on the ground,
the thick yellow flower of the soursop, and it digs and rises like a powerful enigma,
the fuzzy fruit of the guamo, that moans against the warm glow of the rock.
the copper and slow spider, Here the light gathers the ants
the silver and poisonous insect, that carry under the sun grains of gold
they are here in your silence, to shine a light on the ancient mounds.
in your deep silence like the day, Here the day raises convulsed groves,
where the valleys rest funeral claims,
like in the reminiscence of a legend. ravines like temples, slow smokes of graves.
Here is what you wanted among the shepherds, A heavy wind of dark hawks passes by
when the thaw gave music and foam to the streams, and in the homes they burn
and the violets were blooming and the strawberries were ripening around you, branches of some mysterious thicket.
around your village with medieval walls In the Canaima jungle, it flees in a dense breath
and the flight of doves in the afternoons. of darkness and sulfur, of blackish birds,
The fire is here licking the earth, and hangs from the branches like burnt rubber,
the water licking the roots, and traps men
the animals licking the animals. in their burning arms of foul-smelling vines,
And you were here with the sweat of your brow, and screams with death like a spider-monkey.
the solitary, the linen cloth dress, Neither the donkey, nor the old man, nor the child, nor the rabbit,
the upright in the middle of the region of storms, They all know here the easiest way to the afternoon.
the one who was shouting inside, Here the man supports his forehead, his gaze,
searching for his hands and forehead in his existence, his burned hands,
and bury a live rooster up to its wings, There were other houses, red, blue, green, yellow,
to behead him with his eyes blindfolded in my village, which is among trees
and stain the walls of twilight with his blood. I played with children and horses.
Thus you saw the sky embraced by the earth, There was a square with goats and shade-giving almond trees,
in a grave mystery of glowing red, and a church from where a Christ would come out,
where a rider ties the bull of death. in a glass urn, when Holy Week.
And you were questioning the days in silence, I was born in your house with words from the Bible,
and a voice that came from the fire of the earth, and there you were silent, with your books,
he told you: with my mother and my little brothers.
Destroy your veins against the sun, There were your nights,
make your body bleed over the dark rose, still with the stars of another world,
and surrender to the flames that arise from the footprints, and there your loving solitude, your life, your memories.
from the pyre that America ignites night and day And there I was like an anguish for you,
at the foot of the abyssal vision of their heroes. and your work and the sweat of your brow;
and the singing of the frogs in the shadows,
and the pot maker in the corridor of midnight,
XXI and the nighttime rains that threw us into a dark dawn.
And it was always a new return, We were so close to the trees, the river, and the mountain!...
a slow approach of the night, I with my joy where the christofué sang,
a hard advancement of existence, you with your hard life, with blows and nostalgia,
to recover alone, to tell the shadows: standing before the days of my childhood.
Wait, wait for the man.
Do not reject him, keep him well, for he is your son... XXV
Soft golden light illuminated your afternoons, My origins are in you,
and round trees went as far as the edge, my gods, my resins, my dreams.
towards blue mists with burning reflections, In your life of yesterday and in your death of today,
towards the edge of the bull and the cloud of fire. in the grave silence that guards you
It was the red land, with rocks, with latecomers, in a forest of flowers with tall stems,
where tobacco grows in the twilight of music and fireflies.
of white flowers like small chalices. You go through regions of illuminated caves,
There were two women, two women by the water trough. of violet reflections and blue thunders,
There was a warm breeze and the two were pounding with the pestles of the mortar. without interrupting the ascent of your being,
They grind the corn for the bread, because death embraces us in its legends
as if they were playing a drum, and in their solemn domains of cherry blossoms.
a big drum, She... She... The one who brings us back our memory
in the afternoon of your inflamed heart. sorrow of the wife, of the son, of the friend,
Their breasts trembled with the blow of the pestle, and brings the dogs closer to the graves,
and the breeze stirred her black and wavy hair, and stirs butterflies around our forehead,
and lifted the flowers from her skirt and gives smooth movements to the portraits in the rooms.
and they laughed, laughed, amid the blows of the pestle, She... She... The one we so passionately ignore.
they laughed until night, How should I await her in my anguish?
where the deer run through a delirium of gold. What do the choirs that we sometimes hear announce?
beyond the evening groves?
22 In which of our dark shocks
Had you ever seen how the solitude of your blood burned, has been with us, watching us,
in the midst of the wide world with oceans, plains, and mountains? from its window of cold and unforgettable pines,
What was your anguish, and your zeal and your dark discontent? like in a mirror of sufferings
Did you not know, perhaps, that you were wandering in your own drama, and of sunken are of bells,
with your burned rags, fleeing through the shadows, at that moment when we looked at each other with indifference,
with your mouth, your hands, and your temples in the fire, with memories, and do we think about our daily bread?
in the shadow, in solitude, in existence, We come from the night and toward the night we go.
like one who struggles in his anonymous and dark dream? You are already the inhabitant of reflections and echoes,
There was an hour in the taverns for you, but I still hear your voice and your heart and see your smile
next to the sailor, and the drunkard, and the abandoned, and the sad, and your white beard and your strong hand.
and next to the prostitute Someday, yours, and with your words,
that struggles with her heart and her memories, someone was saying goodbye from a lost gulf,
and shatters glasses against the walls of the world, in that moment when you were learning to be alone,
and laughs and sings, and laughs in sadness, seeing the distant ships, the lovers on the shores,
and always love with his strange heart. the fishermen moving their boats towards the waves.
And there was an hour in the shade of a great ceiba tree for you. You were the one who knew how to move forward with your life,
And there was an hour that did not belong to anywhere for you. among the things that are here,
You were a child of the earth, for the man, for the one who lives, for the one who struggles.
moving around the land, in the cities, The things that are here on earth,
in the fields, sunk in your lonely memories, and they pass by us to live in memory
under the winds that sweep the wide sands of dusk. and build our resonant existence.
My eagerness and my words come from you,
and it is your blood that speaks with my lips:
iron
casa, sartén, naranjo, césped vespertino,
rosemary, herb, clove, cayenne, and astromelia.
XXIII. I come from that hour... And here is my existence with children in the hours,
I come from that hour that supports the earth, with children who call me in the hours,
where was your life against the hurricanes, searching for themselves in the hours.
in front of the sealed doors before the silent mouths. And I am here to bring you bread,
Did you ever cry under midnight, and walk through the city with my destiny,
when did the stars take you to your sky? running among clocks with my anguish,
Did you regret it? and contemplate the stars, and look at my nails,
Ah, but your hands could bear all your loneliness and shout inward and towards the sea,
and they gave you the bread! and towards the night, and towards my mother,
And then you looked into the eyes of the poor, and towards the great tremors of the world.
of the beggars that dwell in the corners of the cities. And I am here searching for the answers of my blood,
Ah, the beggars!... They, the beggars!... the solitary signs that wound me,
So similar to the old walls and to the saints... my footprints that follow me on the ground,
my footprints that come from your life,
24 my father, father of my sorrow.
From all your journey as an ancient walker, And of my poetry.
of all your suffering in despair,
to bear the weight of the axe or the sack,
to assist the wounded and distribute the bread,
you only have one house left, XXVI
at whose door you wrote some words from the Bible. Here where the horse gives a throne to the beggar
That house was my house. among the purple tapestries of the evening,
My house painted with lime, over there in my village, here where the hour seals cursed lips,
hidden between coffee and cocoa. raising smoke, ghostly dwellings,
here the screams fall, the blasphemies, the cries. from the dogs that howl in front of the corpses,
Do you want to be the repentant ones? from the ports that ignite
Here neither the word nor the gesture sustains us. your alcohols at night,
and the bones find their dark mirror. from the poverty that is fleeing through the alleyways,
Here only mystery can ignite your flame since the mornings, since that sky of Samaritans,
and welcome our end with the glimmers of lilies. from those trembling cherry trees,
Look here at the skulls, under whose shade my mother
the white skulls that become murky, I hoped that you would come from you
the foreheads under the rainy days, like the simple gift of a poor person;
the fronts rolling, you, alongside her, lift my shadow
waiting for the guitars and the dance. in the valleys of my own heart.
They lean against the stones with their eternal laughter.
Look at them. So similar to you.
Do you remember your room, XXIX
your darknesses, your coins, Open dark doors to the back
your bloodstained hands? of solitary walls,
Look at them with their fronts of cold and darkness. towards the ancient scale of Jacob.
Under the night. The woods, the metals slide,
They wait for us in the tremor of the sacred shadow, falling into the darkness like tongues,
before the one who passes indifferently by the beggar. in the boiling blood,
toward dark faces,
and here, next to my soul,
XXVII blue flowers bloom
I am a unleashed son, in the midst of the glow.
reconquered fury, Behind are the flames coming out of the wood,
daydreaming before the sacred gates. Behind are the winds of the constellations.
The glow has crowned my forehead, A sword, a sword, a sword that shines
and the summit spills its ice under the sun. knock down a black tree.
Hey my solitude when I call you There goes the marble like a river in the night,
from the cliffs. and the voices resonate
Listen to the stellar bells of the souls that arrive at the nocturnal cemetery.
folding over the dusk villages.

XXX
XXVIII We head towards the night and towards the night we go.
You, who cast me down to earth and into nothingness,
from the fiery circle of your experiences,
from all the closed doors,
from the lost streets,
Vicente Gerbasi(Canoabo, Carabobo); June 2, 1913 - Caracas, Venezuela; 28 of
December 1992) was considered the most representative contemporary Venezuelan poet.
Biography

Vicente Gerbasi was born on June 2, 1913, in Canoabo, a small town in the State of Carabobo,
in Venezuela; son of the Italian immigrants Juan Bautista Gerbasi and Ana María Federico Pifano,
those who had settled in that Venezuelan region, carry out primary studies at the school
Domingo Andrade, where he is interested in letters.
In 1940, he joined the poets of the Friday group, introducers of surrealism in poetry.
Venezuelan, drawn by several examples of the so-called Generation of '27. The poetry of Gerbasi.
It began with a book from 1937, Shipwrecked Vigil. His poetry is generally warm and
harmonious, without excess or turmoil. It reflects their astonishment at nature, the feeling of
solitude and its intimacy. In 1969, Gerbasi wins the National Literature Prize for his
Travel poetry. He lived in Colombia between 1946 and 1947 as a cultural attaché and then was
ambassador in countries on several continents. He was the editor of some ephemeral publications such as
"Bitácora", "El perfil y la noche" y "Poesía venezolana".
Vicente Gerbasi is considered the most representative author of Venezuelan poetry.
contemporary. The anthological work undertaken by Monte Ávila Editores in 1970 showcases its
elaborate poetic work, the critical optic sees in Gerbasi an idealizer of nature through
an elliptic language that creates ambiguous and shadowy images that are the internal states of
poet. In his essay book "Creation and Symbol", Gerbasi himself has expressed: "In poetry
words do not have a fair value, philological, etymological, but rather acquire a value
multiple, that escapes the ordinary logic of language.
In Gerbasi's writing, there is an intense investigation of language to inquire into the
endearing peculiarities of the country. Its purpose is to indicate a possible identity, but
without fixing it in inflexible schemes, but highlighting its magical connotations and its cosmogony
poetic, then its language becomes necessary and effective to name that universe. In 'Poem
from the night" of 1943, Gerbasi shows subjective states that manage to become objective and
concretize in real facts or natural phenomena: "Make my sadness great, / mystery of the
night!/Let it pass like a wind/through the shadows of the field/crowning the mountains/of mist
lonely/playing in the villages/harps of eternity". It is the subjectivation that materializes in the
In the grass toasted by the day, the dream of the horse surrounds us with flowers, like the
drawing of a boy
In 1945, Gerbasi published his most essential and well-known book: My Father the Immigrant. It is about a
extensive poem composed of thirty songs based on the same thematic thread: The mythical figure
from the father through which the emotion operates in front of the landscape. My father the immigrant raises
metaphysical enigmas, recreates superstitions, climates, fears, myths, legends, rural customs,
a whole fascinating and magical flora and fauna.
Some of his verses have been translated into European languages. He was admired so much for his verbal magic,
like the close relationship that their language established between that geographical space of their land, and
died on December 28, 1992
Biography

Luis Manuel Urbaneja Achelpohl,

Venezuelan writer and journalist, born in Caracas on February 25, 1873, to whom one can
to be called the father of criollismo. He was, in fact, the first to use the word 'criollismo' in
his magazine 'Cosmopolis'. Urbaneja's is a suffering for Venezuela. It is a cry for the future, for what
I saw it coming, that is, the indifference to what is one's own. When in 1895 someone started to mock the
Venezuelan youth, in trying to rescue the local culture, Urbaneja applied his fine irony by making a
call to the young: "Oh, youth the 'grotesque and vulgar criolla' that loves its heroes, come to
to work on the work of the future: in your hands, the raw material must be transformed into
national affairs, in the bloom of art, delicate and fragrant like a May flower." With her novel of
creole theme, won the first prize in the American Novels Contest in Buenos Aires, in
1916, for his work 'In this country...', with the circumstance of being the first international laurel of a
Venezuelan writer. The edition from Caracas was published, corrected, in 1920. Among its main works
literary productions include the short story 'Ovejón', 'The House of the Four Pencas', and a book that is
collection of his journalistic writings, 'Criollismo in Venezuela', 1945, in which he leaves
sitting his thoughts on the subject. This singular Venezuelan writer who dedicated himself through
of his literary work to defend our values, he died in Caracas on September 5, 1937
As a tribute to this prominent writer, there is a secondary education institution in Caracas.
with the name the Luis Manuel Urbaneja Alchelpohl High School.
Manuel Díaz Rodríguez

Manuel Díaz Rodríguez (Chacao, Miranda State, February 28, 1871 - New City
York, August 24, 1927) was a Venezuelan modernist writer.
His parents were Juan Díaz Chávez and Dolores Rodríguez, Canary Island immigrants who arrived at
Caracas in 1842.
His first book, Travel Sensations, was published in Paris in 1896. His triumph as a writer is going to
is immediate as he receives the award from the Venezuelan Academy of Language.
When Díaz Rodríguez returns to Venezuela, he joins the group of intellectuals who have
grouped around the magazines El Cojo Ilustrado and Cosmópolis. He will be one of the members of
the so-called Generation of 1898 in Venezuela alongside Pedro Emilio Coll, Luis Manuel Urbaneja
Achelpohl, Pedro César Dominici and César Zumeta.
The first years of his life as a writer are quite prolific, as
In 1897, he published Confidencias de Psiquis, with a prologue by Pedro Emilio Coll, and in 1898 he published "De
my Pilgrimages.
In 1899, he married Graciela Calcaño, daughter of the writer Eduardo Calcaño, and returned to
Paris. This same year publishes Color Tales, nine narratives that have the name of a
a determined color which associated with a state of the soul constitutes the atmosphere of each story.
He returns to Venezuela in 1901. At that moment, he has distanced himself from medicine and is dedicated to
complete to write. He publishes his first novel, Broken Idols, which is a questioning of the state
social, political, and cultural context that was experienced in Venezuela during the time of Cipriano Castro, who was
openly opposes. The following year he publishes his second novel, Patricia's Blood, in which
raises the issue of the Civil War. With it concludes what some critics consider the first and
the best stage of the work of Díaz Rodríguez.
After his father's death, he takes refuge in the estate to avoid bankruptcy. He is about to begin for
he a long retreat of almost seven years in the midst of absolute literary silence but where he observes the
life of the farmers, accumulating experiences for a novel he will write years later
afternoon, Peregrina or The Enchanted Well.
In 1908, Juan Vicente Gómez comes to power. Díaz Rodríguez becomes his collaborator and gives
he begins his political career. For seventeen years he holds different high positions in the
Gómez's administration, as vice-rector of the Central University of Venezuela, director of
Instruction and Fine Arts (1913), Minister of Foreign Relations (1914), Senator for the State
Bolívar (1915), Minister of Development (1916), President of the state of Nueva Esparta (1925) and
President of the State of Sucre (1926).
In 1910, he published The Way of Perfection, which is an essay on vanity and pride.
in 1918 Lyrical Sermons and in 1926 Pilgrim. The same year he became a member of the Academy
National History.
Victim of a serious throat disease, Manuel Díaz Rodríguez moves to New
York in May 1927 where he died on August 24.
BIOGRAPHY

SATURDAY, ERNESTO

Born in 1911 in Rojas, a town in the province of Buenos Aires, Argentina. Novelist and
essayist.

Second to last of eleven children, he is sent to the city of La Plata when he starts his secondary education. There
he enrolls in the Faculty of Physical-Mathematical Sciences and affiliates with the Communist Party, which
abandons after a trip to Brussels where he obtains information about the crimes
committed by the regime of Stalin. In 1937, he travels to Paris with a scholarship and establishes contacts with
the surrealists.

In the early 1940s, he decides to leave his profession and settle in a modest
ranch in the sierras of Córdoba. There he writes the essay book "uno and the universe" (1945), with the
who receives the Honorary Ribbon of the Argentine Society of Writers. Works in Paris with the
UNESCO. Back in Buenos Aires is the General Director of Cultural Relations of the Ministry
of Foreign Affairs, a position he leaves for literature.

His later essayistic work, which focuses on the problems of art and the
literature, of the artist and of the writer and their relationship with reality, is gathered in Men and
Gears (1951), Heterodoxy (1953), The Other Face of Peronism (1956), The Writer and His
fantasmas(1963),Tango, discusión y clave(1963),Itinerario(1969),Tres aproximaciones a la
literature of our time (1970), Political Keys of Ernesto Sábato (1972), Apologies and
rejections(1979),Robotization of man(1981),and selected pages(1984). Their production
The narrative focuses on the trilogy composed of The Tunnel (1948), On Heroes and
Tombs (1961), and Abaddon the Exterminator (1974). Receives the Cervantes Prize in 1984.
 THE TUNNEL

ERNESTO SÁBATO

This novel is narrated in the first person as if it were the painter Juan Pablo Castel who
was narrating the novel.

Juan Pablo Castel is a painter who is in prison for the murder he committed against
María Iribarne remembers all the moments that led her to do it.

The story begins when at an art exhibition, Juan Pablo Castel presents his painting and
you realize that one of the observers (María Iribarne), a beautiful young woman, is the one who most
He contemplates his painting, Castel sees that between his painting and the beautiful young woman there is a strange relationship.
so he decides to approach her but she gets lost among the numerous people present.
exhibition.

Castel, from the first day he saw this young woman, the anxiety to see her again was born and he did not rest.
until he found her. One day while he was walking down the street, he came across her and started to chase her, until
she arrived at a building called La Compañía T., she realized because Castel had made her a
question about the name of the building, she answered him without realizing who this gentleman was,
After answering the question, she blushed a little, to which Castel started to interrogate her.
about the painting and whether he remembered it. When Castel asks him about the painting that he had
she was about to cry, which made Castel feel a bit of pity, and he says goodbye to her.
young man who follows him and asks him not to leave; they have a dialogue and she becomes frightened again and leaves
running now she was being chased by Castel who thought it was useless to follow her and let her go thinking that the
I could keep seeing in the office but after a while, I doubted that I worked here.
company. He waited for her all day at the building's exit but was unable to find her; the next day
Next, Castel woke up early to the same company to wait for her, he managed to find her and took her to the square of
San Martín to talk or resolve the situation about that painting.

Juan Pablo Castel, getting to know María, manages to win her over and become her lover; with her, he lives the
love, but when she starts to refuse and go to the stay, Castel begins to take out a
many conclusions of jealousy against her.

In one of her absences, he goes to her house to seek news of the woman who has him.
obsessed, and there he meets a gentleman of a certain age, tall, thin, with very wide eyes and
motionless and murky, is blind. This gentleman greets Juan Pablo very courteously asking him if
is Castel. Upon his affirmative response, the blind man reveals that his last name is Allende and that he is the
husband of María. He tells him that María always uses her maiden name. Immediately, the blind man
delivers a letter that María has left for the painter and that, logically, Allende has not been able to
read, ignoring its content.

The impact that this revelation has on the spirit and mind of the artist is enormous. He thinks about the
suicide and then he reveals himself in the face of the certainty that the blind man and his wife are mocking him.
Another day, the interview of the lovers in the painter's studio takes place in an atmosphere of
maximum violence, insults, recriminations. But suddenly Juan Pablo regrets it and cries, he
he humbles himself and throws in accusations, asking Mary to forgive him.

But the relationship between the two is no longer the same, since the moment the painter knows
that your lover is married to a disabled person. In one of their arguments, he shouts at her: "you deceive a
blind

The belief that María has been with many men obsessively haunts Juan.
Pablo, who in a fit of jealousy, shouts it at the blind husband. During one of the getaways to the
At the ranch, María invites Juan Pablo to go there as well. Hunter receives them with irony.
kindness, in the company of a woman from the family named Mimmi Allende.

María took a long time to leave, as the painter Juan Pablo Castel had to eat at the table with
those individuals who only talked about Russian novels, detective stories, etc. This made others uncomfortable.
a lot to Castel who disguised his boredom and impatience while waiting for María.

During a moment of the days spent at the estate, the painter and María walk away until the
seashore. She then reveals to him several stages of her not very clean past, and then the
the painter feels immense desires to kill her, then throw her into the sea, he thinks this while
María tells him about her past, which Castel didn't pay much attention to.

Juan Pablo Castel decides to return immediately to the city and there, in Buenos Aires, alone with
his thoughts, he falls into a terrible psychological crisis, he seems crazy, he starts to commit
impure acts, such as getting drunk until lying on one of the streets, attending bars,
he related to the prostitutes that when being with one of them, one of her expressions resembled the...
Of María, when this happened, Castel became furious and kicked out this prostitute with some
amount of money.

Castle then calls María, urging her to come quickly with the warning that if not
would immediately commit suicide, María agreed and they arranged to meet in one of the
parks they frequented for their romance at 5 in the afternoon.

Castel waited for her for half an hour before the appointment until 6 in the evening, but she did not come.
failed.

Juan Pablo Castel then decides to return in the middle of the night to the estate, believing that
Maria is in Hunter's arms. Castel is hiding in a place in the park to see Maria come out.
with Hunter, and so it was, he saw them in the park together but then they had to go inside because it was
starting a terrible storm. Castel, seeing that María and Hunter were already entering the house, noticed that
the rooms, especially in Maria's, to notice when she arrived. When Maria
he arrived at his room, Castel entered the house through the terrace to also enter the room of
Maria, without anyone noticing, takes out the knife she had brought from the workshop, grips it, and enters.
In Maria's room, she is astonished to see Juan Pablo and questions him about what is going to happen.
doing, he responds while taking her that he has to kill her because she has left him alone and with great
sadness cried and stabbed the knife into his chest and she looked at him with great sadness which caused in
Juan Pablo fury that made him stab many more times with the knife.

Juan Pablo returned to the city and immediately went to Allende's house to inform him of everything.
what María had done to him by telling him that he had been deceived with him and Hunter, this provoked
So much sadness with Allende that he started to pursue Castel, but he managed to escape. Allende after all
some time ago he/she committed suicide.

Castel then went to the police station and turned himself in confessing everything he had done, and now he is
locked up in jail, remorseful, reflecting and paying for everything he did.