The concert of the Sun

You are in front of the sunset. The breeze passes and you do not hear it. The clouds hardly move, the instant seems to stop, like the sun. You are, and you are not...what a distraction, so many thoughts ringing, changing, and the sun as always, falling. Perhaps the moon blows your back. Perhaps time has forgotten you. In your head, solid currents envelop your senses; you have separated from yourself, because, without knowing it, you are attending the great concert of the sun.

On a day like today, when you have felt that you must stop, everyone has dressed and taken their places, as if they were previously ready. In your faintness you no longer think where you are, nor what phase the moon is in. You are already far away, in the height, going through the world that has begun to tune, while the director, painting a cloud of pink, has moved a ray towards the world.

The worms, so deep, activate the tips of the roots. The branches vibrate with that pulsing that has traveled the trunk, the leaves activate the wind. What did they say? The pods of a white trunk musician sound all at once, while elsewhere a dry tree burns and creaks. A majá is crawling and a bird has said to the other birds: sing, a majá is crawling. And the musician with that tree rhythm, and the flower of a güira, and the birds on high, answer among the lost wind. 

Here and now, the grasses are perhaps afraid of fire. It takes advantage of the majá among the mushrooms of the cowshed. But a cloud intrudes, the place and the music get cold. The river... you have hidden under a sick almond tree, which does not sing, and you see that another universe is reflected on the river. A stone is reflected in the water. There you stay, feeling the silence of a stagnant pond. A single cicada sounds and unleashes a wave of screeching from other cicadas moving to the right. Your being recomposes itself in the soft sound, flows in its vibration, heals. And it's all so soft that it melts away, as the magic moment arrives. Far away, your skin prepares itself, the earth comes bristling from a hundred kilometers, from the hill, the muleteer passes and the shivering prey circles. The door opens with a sound of a thousand frogs and falls, subtle, a three-second drizzle, like a trace that breaks the dust on the river. Where are you? You are lost.

This is not the breeze. It is a current that speaks, like a submerged witch. It drags you through a forest of blurred shadows. The witch, with the vowel u, raises and lowers the pitch, without rhythm, like a didgeridoo changing the timbre, tightening and softening it, dramatic or saccharine, not allowing you to breathe. In despair, you come out of yourself again, fleeing, you no longer have your soul, you have returned. The bright sunset on the white leaves, they vibrate fine as ballet girls. A heron that cannot see you, a lizard from the immense trunk of a mango tree. So far from you, you cannot remember the egg of light you left in the dark stream, let alone the body giddy before the sun. Now you are just the universe, without will, the whole universe, an instant, a space.

You are so little, that you tremble with the vibration of the thousands of ants that move in that hollow. You are so much, that the stars take you as a guide to flow. You are a kalapa that was born, ran and died. An infinite here, eternal now. You are the whole concert: inside you, a small sound is lost with the last ray of sunshine.