Poem by Gustavo Brillembourg
From the book 'Song to the Mountain'

Caracas. Ca-ra-cas it runs
in your veins. I can see;
the fervid rhythm pulses
hot, hot the humid air
that binds, hangs in the lungs
like no other.

The city of the eternal spring, they call it.
It rings visions
my own New England bred
soul cannot grasp.
For me it haunts. For me it
is the memory of some long ago,

my past lives that tear
with the force of hundreds.
They stalk my soul.
I wish to breathe your fire.
I wish to take joy in the sun
of its confusion. The flowers, the tropical

blinding joy, Mañana and the deep, deep
warm blue sea that stretches
to where I lie. You,
you wander back and forth like
the hurt pilgrim that you are.
Seeking a Mecca that floats, always possessed
that demon self that gives no chance
to the rational. Your mad,
grossly vivid pace that frees you
to wander, and condemns you to the search.
What is there, my friend?
I know you-my reflection-
you share with me birth, death,
desire, the languid thighs; parents,
insecurities past mention you sailed with me
north, to the country
of promises.
You sailed with me and yet

never left the beaches of your pulse.