El contexto histórico de "Amor de vereda" / Historical context of "Sidewalk Love"

> Hello, community, several years ago I began to share my poems on this magnificent social network open to creatives from all over the world, driven to this by two dear friends: The remembered poet Marcos Leal - Hive account@marcosjleal - and Prof. María Teresa Fuenmayor - Hive account@sayury -. She collaborated with me by making the publications since my work is very absorbing, so I sent her my poems via email and she took care of the publication. >Then – always for work reasons – we ceased that activity. I continued writing from time to time but no longer publishing.

The teacher recently contacted me via Facebook, telling me that, checking her email, she had found a book of unpublished poems that at that time I sent her with the intention of publishing it physically due to a proposal received that in the end did not materialize. She told me that it would be good to make this work known and to resume publishing on Hive.
She surprised me by publishing a poem that – honestly – I had almost forgotten and we were both very pleasantly surprised to see that it was selected among the 10 highlights of the week by the Literatos community.
This has made a pleasant impression on me and has stimulated me to return to the network and return to this part of my life that gives me great satisfaction, such as the job of capturing my thoughts and ideas and sharing them.
We will be meeting, we will have coffee, we will share ideas and... I will continue writing and publishing, with God's favor.
I have nothing left but to thank this wonderful community for whom I recorded this brief greeting with the intention of making known the context in which “Amor de vereda” (Sidewalk Love) was born.

En la vereda ocho; donde se han escrito tantas historias, donde han caminado tantos sueños,
vieja vereda de esperanzas viajeras, vereda de ayer y aun de hoy, con su cansancio, con su
nostalgia, con su resignación, con su protesta, con su silencio, con su sonrisa, con su amargura, con
su ternura, con esa espera en la memoria que se pierde, que se borra, vieja vereda que llora su
soledad con su gente con su historia, esa vereda de María, José y Alberto, del viejo Ruperto, ese
que no ha sufrido la enfermedad de la moda.

Ruperto el de mascada de tabaco, el de liquilique blanco, el de sombrero de palma, el del trago de
caña clara , el de café negro cuando el amanecer despide la madrugada. Ruperto el de la bicicleta
de reparto que va dejando atrás su sombra con el ruido de sus años, sufrido Ruperto que va
desapareciendo con una pena en los labios, con su sonrisa de bandera a media asta y esa cicatriz de
revolucionario en el alma, Ruperto con su costal de recuerdos y esa vieja vereda que saluda sus
alpargatas y a sus huellas como lágrimas, con su mirada de añoranzas, ¡Vereda de sangre vieja,
nueva!

Vereda hoy también de José y la niña Betania, escritora de su historia; José y su cuatro,
Betania la dueña de sus versos, de su amor inocente, ese que no deja de titilarle en la mirada,
Betania con su velo de timidez sentada en el poyo junto a la ventana. Y José le canta ¡ Betania, bella
Betania!

Como el alto cielo, paisaje de silencio, sonrisa dulce de caña, ojitos de madrugada por los cuales
me desvelo, Betania secreto del Catatumbo por el que casi ya ni duermo, cabellos cuerdas de arpa,
un violín parece tu cuerpo, compás de tambor tus caderas, con un corazón de flechas, bella Betania una alborada de amor, un genuino diseño del Creador.

Betania mi inspiración la que comparo con la patria, en su bondad, en su verdad, en su
belleza, en su pureza es que de donde puedes ser, sino retoño de esta tierra de maravillas, humilde y
sencilla, amada por pocos y pretendida por muchos, algunos infames, cobardes y otros…para
no entrar en detalles, pero yo amo a mi suelo y a ti de dos tamaños iguales y así termino para ti
estos versos huraños quizás en esta vereda testigo de amores ,con su risa de asfalto

On sidewalk eight; where so many have been written stories, where so many dreams have walked, old path of traveling hopes, path of yesterday and even today, with its fatigue, with its nostalgia, with its resignation, with its protest, with his silence, with his smile, with his bitterness, with his tenderness, with that wait in memory that is loses, that is erased, old path that cries its loneliness with its people with its history, that path of María, José and Alberto, of old Ruperto, that who has not suffered the disease of fashion, Ruperto the one with chewed tobacco, the one with white liquilique, the one with the palm hat, the one with the drink of clear cane, the one with black coffee when the day says goodbye to the dawn.


Ruperto the one with the bicycle of distribution that is leaving its shadow behind with the noise of his years, suffered Ruperto who goes disappearing with a sorrow on his lips, with his flag smile at half mast and that scar revolutionary in the soul, Ruperto with his sack of memories and that old path that greets its espadrilles and their footprints like tears, with their look of longing, path of old blood, new! Sidewalk today also of José and the girl Bethany, writer of his history; José and his guitar, Bethany the owner of his verses, of his innocent love , the one that never stops twinkling in his eyes, Bethany with her veil of shyness sitting on the bench next to the window. And José sings to her: Bethany, beautiful!
Bethany!

Like the high sky, landscape of silence, smile sweet cane, little eyes at dawn through which
I stay awake, Betania secret of Catatumbo for the that I hardly even sleep anymore, hair harp strings, a violin seems like your body, drum beat yours hips, with a heart of arrows, beautiful Bethany a dawn of love, a genuine design of the Creator.


Bethany my inspiration the one I compare with the country, in its goodness, in its truth, in its beauty, in its purity is that where you can be from, but offspring of this land of wonders, humble and simple, loved by few and sought after by many, some infamous, cowardly and others... to not to go into details, but I love my soil and you of two equal sizes and that's how it ends for you these sullen verses perhaps on this path witness of loves, with his asphalt laugh


Poem originally published at this link:@carlospalmapoeta/amor-de-vereda-sidewalk-love


Poema publicado originalmente en este link: @carlospalmapoeta/amor-de-vereda-sidewalk-love