#marabinian

A poem by Udón Pérez

Because I sing to you when the first bright shimmer, Rising from dawn, climbs over the mountain, And shines on the old “Empañado*,” who, like a camel, Lies still as the sun gilds his brow and his hump;

Because I sing to you when the splendid focus Of the sun on high rekindles its fire, And seems to my eyes a fantastic seal That stamps the vast message sent down from heaven:

Because I sing to you when the crimson circle Of the setting star recalls the single eye Of some Polyphemus above the sapphire peaks… Because I sing to you calling you mine; Though irony bites, and the snarling pack Of rabid critics mock my devotion—

Let them bark, let them bite! While the palm groves, With sleepless plumes that border your lagoon, Stand to my sight like a host of Indians Guarding their homelands…

And your shadows feign nocturnal mangroves; And your waning moon, a Guajiro’s bow, Pierces the flanks of the dark night With golden arrows from your shining stars.

While your islands, that once heard my praises, With maras, aliles, moporos, and toas, And in their native, vital symphony— Birds, breezes, branches—offer me themes, I shall still call you mine, Maracaibo, my own.

Mine—when you summon your men of valour, When your poets make their hexameters ring, And in lips and pens, without cowardly fear, The ember of Isaiah burns in your protest.

Mine—when you reach out your hand, prepared To bind the wounded, to calm the afflicted, To wield the plowshare of labourers Or the axe that opens the virgin forest. When you shelter children, the aged, the women, And like an anthill your workshops stir, And in your schools there is sunlight and song.

Mine when you laugh, mine when you pray— Mine at all hours, Maracaibo, my own!

Cradle of my fathers and of my grandsires, Cradle of my Ida—forever departed— Cradle of my children, where my life unfolded Like a chalice opening to your sunlit skies!

In you have all my longings borne fruit; You have been my shield, my aegis in battle; You gave to my victories their flowering laurel, And crowned my misfortunes with asphodels.

My dreamlike birds have built their nests Among your rose gardens, and sleep in peace Beneath your cypresses, my beloved dead. Let the pack bark and bite, the rabid horde— While I call you, with the voice of my soul, Mine—full-throatedly—Maracaibo, my own.

___________________

Freely translated by Morales y Loaiza.