Whispers of Time, Remnants of My Soul

I look at my life, and I feel like a gypsy. Let me tell you, I have done karmic readings, and yes, I was a gypsy from the Iberian lands, living in caravans, wandering nomadically. They say it wasn’t the happiest life, as I was married to a man I did not love. My father, Miguel, was there with me in that configuration a hundred years ago. Together, we created nostalgic and poetic hearts, with the skills that now allow us to share our experiences in words.
Proses tangled in Caló: agony, whispers, and virtues of distant lives. Lost dreams float among cirrus clouds; unknown seas dress the jet-black of your eyes, my gypsy.
Oh gypsy, little gypsy, the grace you carry is divine.

I spend these early days of the year chasing flickering lights, following the gallop of this restless spirit in search of answers that bring peace.
My childhood memories take me to a hidden, magical, enchanting place. Shades of orange, green, and lilac color these memories, filling them with faces, scents, expressions, games, and emotions that leap within like a spirited horse at the touch of a sweet memory.
Those days in the green “conuco,” surrounded by a lush parade of trees: acacias, ceibas, cedars, avocado trees, mango trees, and an infinite array of colors like an alhelí flower. They all formed the backdrop to our games: “la ere,” “anaconda,” global parades, Venezuelan soap operas, and so much more.


Free lands, “the Valencianas,” where the air carried the perfume of abundance and the promise of great adventures. A scorching, almost overwhelming heat beat with the vibrant pulse of life itself.
That starry sky above our nights was incredible, like a black silk cloak adorned with tiny specks of light. The Big and Little Dippers, Orion, the Southern Cross, Andromeda, and Pegasus traced an infinite map in the celestial path.
I remember my mother’s face, full of freckles, and how I called her “little dots.” We spent hours drawing dolls and venturing into mountains full of sloths. In those escapades across the Mirandino highlands, we sometimes heard the cries of wild cats; we, innocent, thought they were jaguars.
The distinctive scent of cloves on my father’s breath, always carrying little gifts and humming Serrat’s songs.

Then, the aroma of hibiscus in “La Cigüeña,” that holy land estate that birthed its descendants. There, where cows, horses, trees, and characters dressed in rags stood untouched by the passage of time, oblivious to the accelerated rhythm of progress.
Also, the scrubland, with its savanna fragrance, carried a languor and a vortex, like the calm and tired kiss born of an unbridled passion.
If only I could describe in simple words what Chichiriviche was, “The Place Where the Sun Rises.” Its name, given by the indigenous people, reflects the toasted color of the savanna with flamingos and other birds, the caves, the mangroves, and its keys of infinite white sands.


And so, this hundredfold parade of memories and yearnings continues, wrapping me, embracing me, and strengthening me. They are the shield of light I use to live in the present, the colors that bring my works to life, the blessings kept in this heart that beats with love and joy as I revisit such beautiful experiences.
And yes, this medley is the fine stamp that marks my identity.
In the silence in which I immerse myself to revive these memories, my heart wraps itself in a firm blue that warms my soul.