It is midnight on the dot.
Caracas shyly celebrates Christmas Eve,
unrhythmic pace of colorful fireworks
that reinvent the air with flowery sparks,
floating gardens which hang
for stolen seconds, adorn the sky.
They are timid and melancholy flowers,
fluorescent sparks, which open,
one here, another there, are part of extras
distant in all directions.
They simulate today, the joy that was before.
And become silent, then scream in wonder
scattered colors, here and there.
Very timid, the bright twinkling of
the hoped for tomorrow.
It is Christmas Eve and Caracas celebrates,
under a sky of twinkling lights,
of firecrackers that explode, giving gifts of green,
yellow, red, pink, blue and violet.
What umbrella, a swing dance carnival.
Colors, scattered colors, the explosive is
of gunpowder, omens of hope,
symbol of joy, of their struggles to
live. Singing to the mixed races, the brotherhood and sisterhood
and the dignity of all…
Trembling, waving scintillating handkerchiefs,
and in the sky, touches of a boom, boom, unhurried,
stealthy pace, the rhythm of intense fear.
Colorful sparks dance in the air , your second dance,
almost hidden, the agonizing wait for the birth
soon, and inevitable of that child again… the new 2011.
All await, no one knows if he will bring bread under his arm.
Just know that it arrives and is waiting in the entrance.
So this is Christmas Eve, uncertain, but celebrates,
with joyful, almost spasmodic, bursting firecrackers,
here and there, diligent greetings, cautious, hoping perhaps,
Caracas, celebrates that today is Christmas.