The eyes of the ocelot.
Supported by the mountains, the moon shines high, stately. Of its cuirass drain silver drops that fall silent on the waters moistening, are sunk in the lagoon turning into small celestial fish.
The stars, as teenagers, envisage tireless their beauty in the aquatic mirror of the lake. The darkness, displayed as a fan, is shown enigmatic and unforeseeable. Usurps it nocturnal caresses the leaves of the trees, is strained by the doors of the huts, varnishing the walls made of trunks that interlace jungle and people, implicating the mared faces, the tanned hands, cleaning the sweat tracks of the peasants.
To these hours the darkness is returned empress, cosmogony that transforms to the sky into a lover that lyes on the warm and wet land. Everything is breathed is black, all the sensations are dream. To mean night, the small people, swarthy jewel buried between the liquid trees of sweet aromas and tenuous, sleeps and is directed the dual existence, parallel, controlled by the lethargy. The ocelot, thrown in a wild grass carpet, devours with the senses the nocturnal images and the sighs of the branches, drinks with its gaze the lake and the brownish clouds. Afflicted and spacious, the animal is incorporated and abandoned its emerald throne. Beginning to advance with seal, stalking to the ghosts without body, that alone let their fingerprint fries in the wind. The ocelot gives some steps and observes completely to the people as compared to yes, is stopped to admire it and to cover it with its look, its presence. Close the eyes and deluges its chest with the aroma of the people that sleeps, that aroma of work and illusion, weariness and hunger, smell that has impregnated the people since the arrival of the white man.The beast is shaken upon feeling its spirit abandoning the body, where day and night are established and converged in harmony. The soul starts to wander by the air, rides the blasts of the wind in company of other horsemans, indigenous warriors, dead and forgotten by the years, martial dead, though with body and movement.To crunch it of the branches in the surroundings of the people and the voices ripple between the trees dismantle to the ocelot of its ethereal chimera, vanish its stupor and flog it against soil.The alarmed animal, detects the address of the noises, fixes the sight, raises the ears and arches the body toward the front, attempting to distinguish to the strangers, trying to afinate its senses and to throw them to the interior of the jungle.The branches open the curtain, and appears a white men score loading long and heavy guns. The tranquility of the night is cut by yells, the horror exploits and take shape humanizes, appear as a pale shade and navy that tears the rustic longings. The intruders drag to men, women and children outside of their huts, lifting powder and terror clouds. Carry them to a side of the church of the people, and put them of backs, with the hands on top on the walls. The sound of the shoots is listened hollow, deaf, being increased in the air and being revolved with the groans of the moribunds. The death arrives cover with his purple mantle, and kisses the mouths of the murdered peasants. The small church launches a prayer to his God, the God that creates and forgets, but perhaps never it could give her. The image without form, sterile and crude, ends with the exit of the stage of the murderers.The bodies lie inert, and of the injuries buds the tone of the dawn, dyeing of scarlet the skin and soil. The ocelot, exalted, runs with compulsion toward the in the open air created cemetery makes some instants. It is nervous about to a barefooted feet child and lost look. Smells to fear, knows to death, exhales cold. The animal travels the fingerprints of the slaughter, cleaning with licks the covered blood faces. The jaws are gone taut with rancor to each vermilion drop that goes through the throat. The fangs project as two sharped mother-of-pearl swords. The entire body of the ocelot shines strong and vigorous, laden with rancor. An elder, who lies agonizing between the corpses heap, observes to the beast and smiles languidly. His voice emerges as a hardly noticeable sigh that mumbles: The animal is being feeding of our souls. The prayer resounds in the ears of the ocelot, who directs the thunderstruck sight toward the old that someday was a great martial, makes some hours was an ancient indigenous soldier that was counting histories to the but small of the village. Now, in this instant, in tonight, it is only a bloody and moribund bulk that beseechs to the clock to transform the trip to the following second, into an eternal walk. The low animal the sight defeated by the humiliation print that surrounds it, and beginning to wander slowly by the people, seeking some shade that may not have wanted to die with their owner, some word, some laugh that stay fresh in the air and sweeten to the ears.Perhaps the smell of dream that yet bid farewell the mats that are sat light and empty without their loads humanizes. But is not seen nothing, it is not listened nothing, all has let of existing in a matter of minutes.After crossing the people, the beast arrives to the coffee fields. The air intoxicates the ocelot with a spiced bitterness. Bitterness in the smell, bitterness in the soul, in the nostalgia. In the middle of the earthly of cultivation, a land heap brandish is shown shy as a lost and unclaimed island in the middle of a greenish sea. The first birds begin to trill, directing their anthems to the Sun God that launches another gilded date, heartbroken and injured by its children that this day will not work. The ocelot rises with slow steps to the brown land mound. There lies a rustic and chipped coa, that have been forgetten the previous day by some to the peasants. When someone abandons a site always lets something forgotten by accident, as if with this created a league, a loop that joins it to that lost site. So, the peasant will follow working, and the dead will return, by that they have let their remember between the jungle and the animals. The great star, hangs of the neck of the ocelot a gold necklace. Then, the nahual is discovered by the day. The yellowish hair starts to Be confused with the land, the claws are returned hands, the animal body is returned human: The ocelot gives step to the man. The chaman takes between his hands the coa, handles it; and to each caress, the instrument vibrates under his hands, spiting weariness and arduous work. The man makes to a side the coa and starts a handful of leaves of coffee, grinds them with the fists and is put on the face a jade mask. The wind blows light and lukewarm, jolting the abandoned plantations. The obscure figure of the sat man quivers, the jade is crystallized with the salty water that drains of the indigenous eyes.Emilio García Cuevas