Ceniza de tu Carne
Yo tengo
Tengo al sol de los venados
El catire que en lo alto
El que pinta la sabana
Con el carmen de sus rayos
Y que un día
¡Vendrá a mí!
Fuego verde que atravieza
Los espacios donde bailo
Y asi iré a regresar
A los mundos
¡Del futuuro!
Tengo la sangre de los ancestros
Que poblaban la llanura
Los desiertos y los mares
Sangre negra, sangre roja
Sangre fluyendo
¡Por tus venas!
Seré el angel de la muerte
Y también el de la vida
No sabrás por qué lo busco
No te asustes, no te apures
¡Soy la ceniza de tu carne!
Dame el cielo de tu noche
El espinazo que lo alto
Que refleja en la laguna
Sosteniendo con sus mundos
El espejo de
¡Mi luna!
Veo a las almas de los hombres
Asomando hacia lo alto
Luna bella, luna blanca
Mueve al mar y lo sacude
Esperanza del
¡Destino!
Si eres digno de mi risa
Díme catire lo que miras
Tal vez es que voy a prisa
Y si no es lo que adivinas
No te quedes
¡En la duda!
Tengo al sol de los venados
El catire que en lo alto
El que pinta la sabana
Con el bermello de tus rayos
Y que
¡Vendrás a mi!
Soy la ceniza de tu carne
No te asustes, no me odies
No sabrás por qué te busco
Sólo ten presente que
Soy el angel de
¡La muerte y la vida!
I wanted to write a joropo that was, underneath, a cosmic conversation disguised as a plains chant. The Earth speaks to the Sun, “el catire,” the fair-haired one who paints the savannah with his rays, and although it sounds like llanero myth, what I’m actually describing is something science already knows: within billions of years the Sun will grow large enough to reach us and consume us. I wanted to tell that fate without naming a single word of physics, letting the vocabulary of joropo, the savannah, the deer, the blood of the ancestors, carry the whole conversation.
What I enjoyed writing most was the Earth’s double role in the lyrics: “I will be the angel of death and also of life,” “I am the ashes of your flesh.” I didn’t want a voice that feared the Sun or blamed it. I wanted a voice that recognized we’re already made of that same light, that the red blood and black blood in the lyrics are, literally, star dust rearranged, and that the Sun’s final embrace isn’t destruction but a return to what we already were before we were earth.
I chose joropo because I needed a pulse that felt urgent without losing its warmth, a harp that ran like time itself racing toward that encounter. The image of the mountain range’s spine reflected in the lagoon, holding up the moon, I wanted it to work as a second horizon, the cordillera and the sky looking at each other, so that the love between Earth and Sun would have witnesses even in the landscape.
I never resolved whether “you will come to me” is a threat or a promise. Honestly, I think it’s both at once, and that ambiguity is the closest thing I have to the truth about how all of this ends.
Finally, this song marks a personal milestone for me. Up until now, I would think up the lyrics, and the melodies would come out of the sea of AI. Not this time. In “Ceniza de tu Carne” both the melody and the lyrics are entirely my own creation. Artificial Intelligence only took part as a tool for carrying out my ideas.
So turn up the volume, and stomp your feet to “Ceniza de tu Carne”!