I share an unpublished prose poem, written a few years ago, although it seems to be motivated by the circumstances of the diaspora that my country (Venezuela) has experienced. But, like any poetic text, it speaks for itself.

Swinging

I haven't left, and yet I come back. I return without thinking to the silvery languor that the wind curls over the sea. The intertwined chord of the cello transfigures the memory into a golden afternoon. And I am among his voids, close to the god he announces to me. I recognize the light of the vestibule (*) that I did not possess. The wood of the desk releases an old solidity of forgetfulness, in its patina the works and the days are pour out. What an elusive smile the branches of the tree give me back! I run away and I'm here.

_{(*) The word for Latin America is "zaguán", which is a corridor between the main door of the house and another entrance door; there does not seem to be a word in English that gives the same meaning.}

Thank you for your reading.