Mexican literature -- Translations into English; Mexican prose literature
Two hours later the tempest had passed, drifting to the west, over the
wooded heights. It was five in the evening and the declining sun was
nearing the last low-lying patches of cloud. The light, penetrating
through the exuberant vegetation, colored everything with a marvelous
variety of hues, which melted into a glow of gold and emerald. To the
east an infinite sheet of verdure extended itself, following all the
folds and irregularities of the mountain mass, flecked here and there
with the delicate and brilliant green of banana patches, and undulating
over that stairway of giants, became blue with distance and broke like
a sea against the broad strip of sand of the Vera Cruz coast. The road
which we had followed in our ascent, wound like a serpent among trees,
which scarcely distinguished their foliage masses amid the dense curtain
of vines and creepers, passed over a lofty bridge, descended in broad
curves to a little settlement of wooden buildings, and went, between
dense and tangled patches of briers, to confound itself with the bit of
railroad which led from the foot of the mountain to the port. At the
bottom of the picture, there, where the sea was imagined, were rising
superb cloud masses against whose blue-gray ground were defined the
black and immovable streaks of stratus, seeming a flock of seabirds
opening their enormous wings to the wind, which delayed its blowing.
The German slept as one much fatigued and from his panting bosom issued
heavy sobs; he seemed afflicted with intense suffering; a suspicion
crossed my mind; if he should----!
The branches of a neighboring tree projected, through an open window,
into the _diligencia_, which was standing still, until the torrents
should have spent something of their force. Upon a yellowed leaf
trembled a raindrop, the last tear of the tempest. Preoccupied by the
dismal fear which the condition of my companion caused me, I looked
attentively at that bead of crystal liquid. This is what I saw:
The drop of water was the Gulf of Mexico, bordered by the immense curve
of hot coast and cut off, on the east, by two low breakwaters, crusted
with flowers and palms,--Florida and Yucatan, between which, in flight,
extended a long string of seabirds, the Antilles, headed by the royal
heron, Cuba, slave served by slaves.
In the midst of the Gulf, surmounted by a yellow crown, which gilded the
sea around like an enormous sunflower which reflects itself in a flower
of water, arose a barren island of the color of impure gold, where
currents deposited the seaweeds like the wrappings which swathe Egyptian
mummies. Above that rocky mass the sun gleamed like copper, the rapid
moon passed veiled by livid vapors, and on days of tempest the
storm-birds described wide circles around it, uttering direful
croakings. A voice, infinitely sad, like the voice of the sea, sounded
in that lost island; listen, it said to me.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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