Hola amigos amantes de la literatura, les deseo un Feliz y bendecido año nuevo 2026. De nuevo con ustedes para compartir obras literarias. *La criatura de isla trasciende siempre al mar que la rodea Y al que no la rodea...* **Dulce María Loynaz** ![](https://images.ecency.com/DQmewvQ2oMjFrKmrWebW8MZSxvp3xcpRowUbQ1qmWxMYSNk/img_20250810_114255_460.jpg) Comienza la noche a correr. No la sujeta raíz, ella es de aire, una criatura distinta. Como nube llega la noche, destierra el cansancio en el pavimento, duermen a su calor las palabras, se amansan los habitantes. Las piedras de la isla parece que van a salir volando. La isla se hace menos firme. La noche la rodea y nos rodea, nos hace recuerdos, nos vuelve escamas; nacen los ríos de las manos, remos en cada ola. Flotan los pies, igual que barcos, los grandes pies. ································································· Algo quedó atrás, en el fondo de la isla . Tal vez la luz, el tiempo histórico o lo histórico sin tiempo. La numerosa familia de la cola del pan, los que miran al mar en tierno y desesperado impulso, como los peces, se lanzan al mar, o como peces quedan mudos; otros (muchos), han echado en lezamiana tierra sus raíces, parte de su cuerpo se diluye en el agua, en las orillas de su piel, las orillas de la isla que somos, mientras la melancolía carcome la mirada. Como piedras volando hemos salido. Nuestras raíces, atrapadas quedaron, aun de la tierra son parte, sangran y retoñan. Ojalá y mis peces medite lo mismo. ¿Cómo saberlo? Descubrir quien es quien detrás del espejo, después de la fuga sin alas escrita en pleamar. ¿cómo saberlo Virgen de Regla, Caridad del Cobre? Esperemos. ··································································· Las horas pasan, la sal pesa, se eterniza la noche, ruedan los ojos sobre el agua, vemos los fragmentos de la isla, se descuartiza, Y como niños en el vientre de la madre sollozamos. Abrimos el pecho, agitamos los labios; el grito del adiós devora las palabras, y después, pequeños y asustados, se despiden los brazos en lo último del aire. ............................................................................. La noche ya no corre, se ha escapado el tiempo, un mundo rojo el cuerpo violenta, comenta al oído los pecados retarda la llegada de la virgen. ............................................................................. La esperanza se marchita, no la sujeta la raíz. Avisan algunos que han tocado tierra firme, extraña, decimos los otros. ![](https://images.ecency.com/DQmSc7JwGNfhUMw5Wywv3gQkhRwF3jo366vaiZUD2UNGYAt/texto_12_.jpg) ![](https://images.ecency.com/DQmZgEYwbWXsPtnALCquFf8frbap3fDb9s56qGhCcPDj5KD/_al_nhyamar78_1_.jpg) ![](https://images.ecency.com/DQmQUNqDXZ5CVYPvhJr369ApccLYKQU3ANCKR6XqUPbQJhB/versi_n_en_espa_ol_3_.jpg) Hello fellow literature lovers, I wish you a happy and blessed New Year 2026. I'll be back with you to share literary works. *The island creature always transcends the sea that surrounds it And the one that doesn't...* **Dulce María Loynaz** ![](https://images.ecency.com/DQmewvQ2oMjFrKmrWebW8MZSxvp3xcpRowUbQ1qmWxMYSNk/img_20250810_114255_460.jpg) Night begins to run. It has no roots, it is made of air, a different creature. Night arrives like a cloud, banishing weariness from the pavement, words sleep in its warmth, the inhabitants are tamed. The island's stones seem about to fly away. The island becomes less firm. Night surrounds it and surrounds us, it makes us remember, it turns us to scales; rivers are born from our hands, oars on every wave. Our feet float, like ships, our great feet. ··································································· Something was left behind, deep within the island. Perhaps the light, historical time, or timeless history. The numerous family in the bread line, those who gaze at the sea with tender and desperate impulse, like fish, throw themselves into the sea, or like fish, remain silent; Others (many) have put down roots in Lezama Lima's earth, part of their body dissolves in the water, on the shores of their skin, the shores of the island we are, while melancholy gnaws at our gaze. Like flying stones we have emerged. Our roots, trapped, still part of the earth, bleed and sprout. I hope my fish meditate the same. How to know? To discover who is who behind the mirror, after the wingless escape written at high tide. How to know, Virgin of Regla, Charity of El Cobre? Let us wait. ····································································· The hours pass, the salt weighs heavy, the night stretches on endlessly, our eyes roll over the water, we see the fragments of the island, it is dismembered, And like children in their mother's womb, we sob. We open our chests, we flutter our lips; the cry of farewell devours the words, and then, small and frightened, our arms wave goodbye in the last breath of air. ............................................................................. Night no longer runs, time has slipped away, a red world violates the body, whispers sins in the ear, delays the arrival of the virgin. ............................................................................ Hope withers, its roots no longer hold it. Some warn that they have reached solid ground, strange, we say, the rest of us. ![](https://images.ecency.com/DQmXMP5ERFBMvo2ajfgAwH2M7djPwMprKo3b9nnRoo5wjWt/texto_11_.jpg) ![](https://images.ecency.com/DQmZgEYwbWXsPtnALCquFf8frbap3fDb9s56qGhCcPDj5KD/_al_nhyamar78_1_.jpg) ![](https://images.ecency.com/DQmdc4U7uQm1Np3QgDowG249Wq6ArkPYX1z4UtfwYbkbX3j/hive_recap_2025_ali_nhyamar78_.png) _{El texto es libre de IA, traducido en Google y revisado por mí} _{El separador de idiomas, los agradecimientos y la despedida fueron creados en Canva} _{Las fotos son de mi propiedad} _{The text is AI-free, Google translated and proofread by me.} _{The language separator, acknowledgments, and closing were created in Canva} _{The photos are my property}

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