¿Quién le dio un lápiz a la lagartija?

Baby Private being Badass

Hace un clima precioso. La lluvia ha amainado, las nubes se han apartado y el sol brilla con fuerza sobre los brotes húmedos del jardín. 

Pero el buen clima hace poco para aliviar el nudo en su garganta, el dolor en su hombro, la torcedura en su muñeca. 

Se para sobre el sendero, con la vista levantada, sus ojos fijos, casi poseídos, en las mansardas que parecen perforar el azul del cielo. 

Las cuenta casi obsesivamente, aunque el resultado siempre es el mismo; siete.

Siete mansardas, altas, filosas, furiosas. 

"Y yo me paré sobre la arena del mar, y vi una bestia subir del mar, que tenía siete cabezas y diez cuernos; y sobre sus cuernos diez diademas; y sobre las cabezas de ella nombre de blasfemia" 

Tarda unos segundos en reconocer su propia voz, tan alta y clara, tan diferente a su interior asustado y tambaleante que le parece ajena. 

El dique en su garganta se rompe. 

Baja la mirada, de las tejas oscuras al ladrillo viejo de las torretas que en la distancia parecen devolverle la mirada, uno, dos, tres, lentamente cuenta hasta diez. 

Y entonces el peso del juicio no le permite  seguir mirando. 

Aparta la mirada como si algo le quemara, refrescando sus corneas con el frío rocío en el jardín. 

"Y la bestia que vi, era semejante a un leopardo, y sus pies como de oso, y su boca como boca de león. Y el dragón le dio su poder, y su trono, y grande potestad" 

A primera vista, parece casi inocente, apostada cómodamente contra la humilde tierra, como si su imponencia no alcanzará las nubes. 

"Y vi una de sus cabezas como herida de muerte, y la llaga de su muerte fue curada: y se maravilló toda la tierra en pos de la bestia" 

Como si sus cimientos, como viciosas raíces, no se hundieran tan profundo que bien podrían alimentarse del lago de fuego y azufre. 

"Y adoraron al dragón que había dado la potestad a la bestia, y adoraron a la bestia, diciendo: ¿Quién es semejante a la bestia, y quién podrá lidiar con ella?" 

Finalmente su inquietud interior alcanzo su discurso. un escalofrío subió por su columna y el sudor le perló la frente. 

Abraza su mano derecha, masajeándola lentamente como un pequeño ritual de autoconsuelo.

¿Quién podría lidiar con ella?

///////////////Translated with Chatgpt////////////

The weather is beautiful. The rain has softened, the clouds have drifted apart, and the sun shines brightly over the garden’s damp new growth.

But the pleasant weather does little to ease the knot in his throat, the ache in his shoulder, the twist in his wrist.He stands on the path with his gaze lifted, his eyes fixed—almost possessed—on the mansard roofs that seem to pierce the blue of the sky.

He counts them with near-obsessive insistence, though the result is always the same: seven.

Seven mansards, tall, sharp, furious.

“And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns; and upon his horns ten crowns; and upon his heads the name of blasphemy.”

It takes him a few seconds to recognize his own voice—so loud and clear, so different from the frightened, wavering turmoil inside him—that it feels foreign.

The dam in his throat breaks.

He lowers his gaze, from the dark shingles to the old brick of the distant turrets that seem to stare back at him. One, two, three… slowly, he counts to ten.

And then the weight of judgment keeps him from looking any longer.

He turns away as if something were burning him, the cold garden dew cooling his stinging corneas.

“And the beast which I saw was like unto a leopard, and his feet were as the feet of a bear, and his mouth as the mouth of a lion. And the dragon gave him his power, and his seat, and great authority.”

At first glance, it seems almost innocent, settled comfortably upon the humble earth, as if its imposing presence did not quite reach the clouds.

“And I saw one of his heads as it were wounded to death; and his deadly wound was healed: and all the world wondered after the beast.”

As if its foundations—like vicious roots—did not burrow so deep that they could well feed on the lake of fire and brimstone.

“And they worshipped the dragon which gave power unto the beast: and they worshipped the beast, saying, Who is like unto the beast? who is able to make war with him?”

At last, his inner turmoil reaches his voice. A shiver crawls up his spine, and sweat beads across his forehead.

He clutches his right hand, massaging it slowly in a small ritual of self-comfort.