POETRY OF THE LIBERATOR
We share with you the only prose poem written by Simón Bolívar, hero of Latin American independence.
“Mi delirio sobre el Chimborazo” (1822)
Simón Bolívar
I came wrapped in the mantle of Iris, from where the mighty Orinoco pays its tribute to the God of waters. He had visited the enchanted Amazonian springs, and I wanted to climb to the watchtower of the Universe. I looked for the traces of La Condamine and Humboldt; follow them boldly, nothing stopped me; I reached the glacial region, the ether suffocating my breath. No human plant had ever trodden the diamond crown that the hands of Eternity placed on the lofty temples of the dominator of the Andes. I said to myself: this mantle of Iris that has served as my banner, has traveled in my hands over infernal regions, has crossed the rivers and the seas, has climbed on the gigantic shoulders of the Andes; The land has been leveled at the feet of Colombia, and time has not been able to stop the march of freedom. Belona has been humiliated by the radiance of Iris, and will I not be able to climb on the gray hair of the giant of the earth? Yes, I will can! And carried away by the violence of a spirit unknown to me, which seemed divine to me, I left behind Humboldt’s footprints, blurring the eternal crystals that circle Chimborazo. I arrive as if driven by the genius that animated me, and I faint when I touch my head to the cup of the firmament: I had the thresholds of the abyss at my feet.
A feverish delirium overwhelms my mind; I feel as if lit by a strange and superior fire. It was the God of Colombia that possessed me.
Suddenly Time appears to me under the venerable countenance of an old man burdened with the remains of the ages: frowning, bowed, bald, curly complexion, a sickle in his hand…
«I am the father of centuries, I am the arcane of fame and secret, my mother was Eternity; The limits of my empire are indicated by the Infinite; There is no grave for me, because I am more powerful than Death; I look at the past, I look at the future, and the present passes through my hands.
Why are you conceited, child or old man, man or hero? Do you think your Universe is something? That to raise yourself above an atom of creation is to elevate yourself? Do you think that the moments you call centuries can serve as a measure for my arcana? Do you imagine that you have seen the Holy Truth? Do you madly suppose that your actions have any value in my eyes? Everything is less than a point to the presence of the Infinite who is my brother.
Overcome with a sacred terror, “how, oh Time,” I answered, “should the wretched mortal who has climbed so high not vanish? I have passed all men in fortune, because I have risen above the heads of all. I dominate the earth with my plants; I reach the Eternal with my hands; I feel the infernal prisons seething under my steps; I am looking next to me at the brilliant stars, at the infinite suns; “I measure without amazement the space that matter encloses, and in your face I read the History of the past and the thoughts of Destiny.”
“Observe,” he told me, “learn, keep in your mind what you have seen, draw in the eyes of your fellow men the picture of the physical Universe, of the moral Universe; “Do not hide the secrets that heaven has revealed to you: tell the truth to men.”
The ghost disappeared.
Absorbed, numb, so to speak, I remained lifeless for a long time, lying on that immense diamond that served as my bed. In short, the tremendous voice of Colombia shouts to me; I rise from the dead, I sit up, I open my heavy eyelids with my own hands: I am a man again, and I write my delirium.
Had you heard the poem before, what did you think?