Sin Fronteras Spring 2017 Sin Fronteras Spring 2017 | Page 12

By SIMONA RODRÍGUEZ
Losing Sleep
Vania Álvarez
My right shoulder is almost numb; a million red ants stomping
rhythmically on it,
leaving, it seems, the reddish liquid to hastily spill over my limp arm. The dry path
my feet march on leaves a rising cloud of dust behind me. The dust prohibits even
the finest eyesight from passing through. Light has hidden behind the raucous shelves

of concrete,
and it is here that I encounter the moon with an inconceivable proximity,
appearing to glow as twenty thousand candles do, in a dark room. I shiver
inconsolably; appalled by such beauty, amazed by the despair of its loneliness;
wide eyed,
I stare. Emerging from the exposed daze of convalescence, it blinks; once, twice,
and it whispers to me in the loveliest manner. Ever so slightly, caressing the edge
of insanity, it tempts the birds to fly high, and never come back. Their docile
nature prevents them from soaring. They are bent on forgetting what
pulses beneath,
and so become raveled in the irretrievable madness of illusion. The thin stroke that
defines the murmur of existence and the luring sound of creation. That silence
resonates over the void that seems to remain frozen for eternity, and I hear the
tender voice
that tickles my skin once again. Enticing an enchanting somnolence that
tells me to remember the warm brightness of the sun, and the gentle embrace
of raindrops, for there will come a time when I will need their comfort.
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