Hay un refrán muy usado por acá que se relaciona con las nubes, fundamentalmente se le escucha a los ancianos y dice así: "Cielo empedrado, suelo mojado". Y esa profecía, por regla, casi siempre se cumple. Quienes me conocen saben que vivo en las periferias de la ciudad, pero amanecí hace unos días muy cerca del mar, justo en el litoral habanero. El cielo empedrado, con su azul profundo, ofrecía unas nubes que parecían poemas escritos con vapor y luz. Nunca vamos a ver dos nubes iguales, y es que su belleza está, precisamente, en lo fugaz y lo efímero de su existencia, en esa danza silenciosa que transforma el azul y el blanco en un performan celestial en movimiento.
Hello, my friends. I hope everyone is well. It's a pleasure to greet you all, especially the members of this community.
There’s a common saying around here related to clouds, mostly heard from the elderly, that goes: "A paved sky, a wet ground." And that prophecy, as a rule, almost always comes true. Those who know me are aware that I live on the outskirts of the city, but a few days ago, I woke up very close to the sea, right on Havana’s coast. The paved sky, with its deep blue, offered clouds that looked like poems written with vapor and light. We will never see two identical clouds, and their beauty lies precisely in the fleeting and ephemeral nature of their existence, in that silent dance that transforms blue and white into a moving celestial performance.
Over the coast, the clouds put on a unique and unrepeatable spectacle. They are not the same clouds that fly over the mainland; here, I like to believe they are freer, more joyful, and happier. Clouds are nothing more than sculptures shaped by the wind, changing form at their whim and fancy. Sometimes they look like pieces of floating cotton, delicate and light; other times, they mimic animals, strange countries, and continents. They can also be like mountains, announcing the storm with their imposing gray.
For me, observing the clouds is an excellent relaxation exercise. It invites me to daydream, to see a dragon, a ship, a face, a building, a ball, a cake. They are a genuine and spontaneous performance, which is perhaps why I like them so much, as I identify with everything spontaneous. In their silent journey, the clouds offer a free spectacle to those who decide to look up at the sky.
Their range of colors is one of nature’s many masterpieces. At dawn, they take on soft pink tones, like watercolors on the horizon. And at dusk, they turn reddish to bid farewell to the sun. Even on gray days, the clouds possess a beauty that often plunges us into longing and melancholy, which later turns into rain and life.
During the day, there was a scorching sun (a "water sun," as I like to call it). Ironically, and according to my empirical studies of meteorology, the stronger the sun’s rays, the more likely it is to rain. Then, one sees how the clouds undergo a perpetual metamorphosis, growing and transforming before the eyes of attentive and curious passersby like me. They come together to perform the miracle of much-needed rain. Watching them is like witnessing multiple births and constant renewals.
But it is at dusk when they reach their maximum splendor. The sun, in its retreat, makes them look like a fire. Orange and gold colors merge to announce that night is near, and it won’t be until the next day that we can once again enjoy their beauty. And the night absorbs them, transforming them into dark and mysterious masses, into ghostly silhouettes that hide the moon and the stars. This is how each day says goodbye, reminding us that clouds are not just natural phenomena but the soul of the sky’s landscape, a bridge connecting the vastness of the sea and the land. And just as the saying goes, despite it being a very sunny day, it rained that afternoon.
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Text and imagen are my own
