Today I share a brief synopsis, a beautiful poem.. Black Angels, by the Venezuelan poet Andrés Eloy Blanco.

The poem is about a humble, poor, black-bred child who dies... His mother comments on his consolation that his son is now an angel of God. The poet influences the racial and social reality of the moment, and in fact that, when the angels are painted, there is none black. It also criticizes the church for not taking into account the social and racial reality of the moment..

Black Angels by Andrés Eloy Blanco.

Ah, world! The black Jeanne, the bad thing that happened to him!
His little black man died, yes, sir.

Ay, Compadrito of the Soul, Ay, of the soul, so healthy that the black was!
As she consumed herself, she measured it with her body.
He was getting skinny like she was getting.

His black boy died, Ay, his negrito. God would have him ready, he will have it placed as Angel of heaven.
Desengáñese, Compadre, there are no black angels.

Painter of saints of Alcoba, Ay, of alcove, if you have blood in the chest, why when painting in your paintings do not remember the Negroes?
So where are you going, morenitos of my people?

painter born in my land, Oye, in my land, with the foreign brush, painter who follow the direction of so many old painters, even if the Virgin is white, píntame Black Angels.

There is no painter to paint, ay, to paint angels of my people.
I want white angels with dark little angels;
Angel of Good family is not enough for my sky.

If there is a painter of saints, Oye, Santos, if there is a painter of heaven, make the sky of my land with the tones of my people, with his Angel of Fine Pearl, with his angel of half-hair, with his dark angels, Ay, Morenos , with their little white angels, with their little Indian angels, with their little black angels eating mango through the slum of heaven.

If you know how to paint your land, hear, your land, if you have to paint your sky like the sun that toasts white, like the sun that sweats black, even if the Virgin is white, píntame Black Angels.