A poem to Cúcuta, my home city with a never-ending summer, surrounded by mountains, populated by almost one million people and Colombia’s most important port of commercial exchange with Venezuela.
From my Dad’s book The celebrated afternoon (La tarde festejada).
Valley of Cúcuta 1 (Valle de Cúcuta 1)
The light that floods the valley
under the summery suns.
The merciful breeze
that arrives in the afternoons.
The old lightening
of Tasajero.
The nostalgia of the universe
that travels on an unknown railroad
beyond the fraternal line.
The daytime shadows
sleepy on the streets
under the treetops.
The thread of silver
and of silence of the river.
The memory of the re-builders
in the nearby reservoirs
of Oblivion and Glory.
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