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Palingenesis
I was chatting with Archibald MacLeish in Los Marinos Bar In Barceloneta when I saw her appear, a plaster statue Walking arduously over the cobblestones. My friend Saw, too, and sent a waiter to fetch her. For the first Few minutes she didn't say a word. MacLeish ordered consommé and Shellfish tapas, pan de payés with tomato and oil, and San Miguel beer. I settled for a chamomile infusion and slices of Wheat bread. I should take care of myself, I said. Then she decided to speak: The barbarians are coming, she whispered melodiously, a deformed mass, Pregnant with howls and oaths, a long night tossed up To reveal the marriage of muscles and fat. Then Her voice shut off and she set about devouring dishes. A hungry and beautiful woman, said MacLeish, an irresistible temptation For two poets, though from different languages, still from the same indomitable New World. I said he was right without getting all of his words And closed my eyes. When I woke MacLeish had gone. The statue Was there in the street, her remains scattered on the irregular Sidewalk and old cobblestones. The sky, hours before blue, had turned Black as insurmountable rancor. It's going to rain, said a barefoot Little boy, shivering for no apparent reason. We stared at each other a while: With his finger he gestured to pieces of plaster on the ground. Snow, he said. Don't shiver, I responded, nothing's going to happen, the nightmare, though close, Has passed, barely touching us.