Isabel de Aguiar
My country was a May flower,
picked up by a turpial
over the dunes of Coromoto,
sand like the Sahara rolling to the horizon.
My country was the Amazon,
and the Warao,
their dugout bongos dotting the marshlands.
It was Canaima and Morrocoy,
and my very own Valencia.
Its scent burns of tires set ablaze
and seas of people flooding interstates,
their flags prayers waving through the air.
But in my dreams I find that I fly,
over the cascades of Salto Angel
on the wings of a dove,
its talons clutching your colors.