He must have been that man himself
An angelic figure with wings
Long enough
To plod through generations
And magically implant
a city of mirrors
Macondo,
By the side of a river
and a forest
Deep and dark
Like our own solitude,
He must have been
That very old man with enormous wings
To turn events into chronicles
And to turn the mundane
into something extraordinary,
Where ghosts of our hunger and sufferings
Come out into the open
And dance in noonday dreams
Casting premonitions
Of destruction,
He must have been
That very old man with enormous wings
To divulge secrets
of
Our sins,
Our acts of violence,
Our own ways of overreaching us,
Our phobic indisposition
Of imagining the worst
Our resurrections at the cost
Of blood,
Our dreams and wishes as ripe as wheat,
Our triumphs, our feats,
He must have been
That very old man
With enormous wings.
(a tribute to Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
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