• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 11
Image by

Antón Lizardo

The sea waters and my free thought, flying over the reddish
sunset waves toward the Antilles, then losting in the great ocean
and, from there, traveling who knows where, who knows when ...
Like this I would stay until the last old age, here, in the tavern
of the harbour from the end of the world, at the dirty wooden
table, sleeping and dreaming near the glass of Tequini, under
the shade of the reed and of the trees with large, unearthly leaves...

Antón Lizardo, how many aliens have cuted and how many
have shot the rebel sons of these lands for this smell of warm
shells and putrid algae of your homeland?!
Here, in this shore head from Alvarado, south of Veracruz,
at a shout from Boca del Rio, here is the place where you can
lose your human loneliness and you can blend with the loneliness
of the space, of the water and of the earth, of the sand and of the sky.
Life begins here the second and last time; the clamor of the city
is far away, hardly now begins, but is far away, doesn’t reach up
to the beach ...

At the midle of life, here, on this shore head, south of Veracruz,
at a shout from Boca del Rio, far from Europe that grew me up,
at the midle of life I will still smoke a few cigarettes and then I will
bargain with the elders fishermen for a more lasting vessel with
which to torn forever from the ground. The half of the life that
has still remained will belong to the water, to the boundless sea
and to the travels full of adventures.


Antón Lizardo

Gonzalo, the innkeeper who can not leave with me, told me that
last night a woman shot herself in the city because her husband
was living in serious intentions with the fifth prostitute of his life,

one of the public beauties of the borough, a common good which
soon began to wilt.
Oh, Antón Lizardo, my beloved shore, how far I will be
from all this and how I will remember that you've been
brother and relief to me at bay, that to you I owe my life,
which will climb from now on the billows of days and years!...

To drink one more glass and then I’ll lose myself in the nightfall
to the huts of the fishermen, who will never know that I am leaving
without the thought of returning, without the pain of any memory
that can not be healed.