The buildings are so high
nothing can be seen now of my childhood.
I’ve lost my patio with its lazy clouds
where the light dropped ibis feathers,
soft Egyptian clarities.
I’ve lost my name and the dream of my house.
Rigid frames of buildings, tower on tower,
now hide the mountain from us.
The racket grows with a thousand motorcars for each ear,
a thousand sets of wheels for each foot, all of them deadly.
Men race after their voices
but their voices have wandered off
chasing the taxis.
More distant than Thebes, Troy, Nineveh
or the fragments of their dreams,
Caracas, where are you?
I’ve lost my own shadow and the feel of its stones.
Nothing can be seen any more of my childhood.
I stroll through its streets now
like a blind man, each day more solitary.
Its space is real, fearless, solid concrete.
Only my history is false.
About this poem
This poem, representing Venezuela, is part of The Written World – our collaboration with BBC radio to broadcast a poem from every single nation competing in London 2012.