San Juan

The most beautiful place I’ve ever been.

If this were Paradise, I wouldn’t be disappointed.

 
SAN JUAN (1938)
 
Evaristo Ribera Chevremont
 
 
     The sun covers the docks, long and hollowed
by the sea, dotted with shells and planks. 
At the docks, sugar, coal, mulattos, noises;
and in the sea, ships, yachts, brigantines, coves.
 
     The wave is blue, is green; glowing, in full infernos,
from the stone castle that stands at the entrance
of the harbor, at the shore of the sea, coconuts, sands.
The light and colors anchored in the harbor.
 
     Painted farmhouses; small and ferrous bridges; 
walls of Spain on the ever-changing wave;
dusty gardens, burning and rustling;
and the pelican, with sharp beak, makes his rounds.
 
     San Juan gathers its stones, just like the sky gathers
its clouds; and its massiveness is polished, refined.
The tropics, its fiery grass and unctuous dream
from Morro, to San Cristóbal and Santa Catalina.