Greetings, dear Steemians
Today I want to share some pictures of a local historic site, turned museum, the house of Venezuelan poet and politician Andrés Eloy Blanco (1896-1955), some reflexions about an incident in that house, and my translation of one of Blanco's most beautiful poems.

I will not tell you about our dear poet's life or about the specifics of this beautiful house; other fellow Steemians from @equipocrdumen have posted excellent accounts. You can check, for instance, this marvellous post by @antolinamartell here

As I have been telling you in the last Ulogs, my wife and I have been frequenting Cumaná's so-called historic quarter, the area around Barrio San Francisco, one of the few colonial neighborhoods left in town. Around the Plaza Pichincha we have many historic sites, among which, the Ateneo, where our daughter is taking singing classes; the governor's house, and the house of Andrés Eloy Blanco.

I used to visit this house when I started college back in 1991. It was a source of inspiration for me. To step foot in the house of such an amazing Venezuelan, who did so much for our country's cultural and political development and died so far away, was a transformative experience. Everything was very well preserved back then.

Much have changed since, especially the visitors. Decades ago, people scheduled visits to this house. Now, almost nobody pays any attention to it.

One of her curators, Mrs. Nasar, is still there, faithfully trying to preserve Blanco's literary and humanistic legacy. She is a very nice and knowledgeable lady who is always willing to tell a story and answer any question.

When we entered the house, she was telling some teenagers from some school stories of how the house became a museum. A couple of small "street kids" were pretending to be interested in the chat, but seemed to be fishing for a chance to get their hands on something, or were just being obnoxious.

I hate to be right about "street kids" and we have more of them every day. They wander the streets without parents or relatives to guide them; they attend no school (except "life school"); and from early age they sink in the fangs of our predatory streets that teach them to be distrustful and turn them into con artists.

Andrés Eloy wrote a lot about children. He loved them as he loved poetry and his country.

He wrote about children's discrimination in artistic representations, he wrote about arbitrary class differences, about their joys and hopes.

His poetry invited readers to love all children all the same.

And yet, his house and his image have ben the object of quite a few acts of vandalism, many of which have been perfomred by children. The children who wander our streets now are not the same the poet knew. They speak of the dramatic turn our country has taken.

The kids we saw that day wandered around touching everything they had been told please not to touch, especially the piano. After a while they decided to leave.

There was nothing of real value for them to take, except collectors' items and the nostalgic treasures of a house full of history and anecdotes. There was this box, though, next to Mrs Nasar's desk. People put little money there as contributions for the house maintenance. There are some used books next to the box that people can take in exchange for their donations. One of the kids slyly stuck a hand in the box and took a couple of bills, not even enough to pay for a bus fare, and rushed out. Mrs Nasar gave us a resigned look. She must see this often enough to care.

This is the poem I'd like to share with you today. I think it echoes that old maxim according to which "it takes a village to raise a child."

Los Hijos Infinitos

by Andrés Eloy Blanco (1896-1955)

Cuando se tiene un hijo,
se tiene al hijo de la casa y al de la calle entera,
se tiene al que cabalga en el cuadril de la mendiga
y al del coche que empuja la institutriz inglesa
y al niño gringo que carga la criolla
y al niño blanco que carga la negra
y al niño indio que carga la india
y al niño negro que carga la tierra.

Cuando se tiene un hijo, se tienen tantos niños
que la calle se llena
y la plaza y el puente
y el mercado y la iglesia
y es nuestro cualquier niño cuando cruza la calle
y el coche lo atropella
y cuando se asoma al balcón
y cuando se arrima a la alberca;
y cuando un niño grita, no sabemos
si lo nuestro es el grito o es el niño,
y si le sangran y se queja,
por el momento no sabríamos
si el ¡ay! es suyo o si la sangre es nuestra.

Cuando se tiene un hijo, es nuestro el niño
que acompaña a la ciega
y las Meninas y la misma enana
y el Príncipe de Francia y su Princesa
y el que tiene San Antonio en los brazos
y el que tiene la Coromoto en las piernas.
Cuando se tiene un hijo, toda risa nos cala,
todo llanto nos crispa, venga de donde venga.
Cuando se tiene un hijo, se tiene el mundo adentro
y el corazón afuera.

Y cuando se tienen dos hijos
se tienen todos los hijos de la tierra,
los millones de hijos con que las tierras lloran,
con que las madres ríen, con que los mundos sueñan,
los que Paul Fort quería con las manos unidas
para que el mundo fuera la canción de una rueda,
los que el Hombre de Estado, que tiene un lindo niño,
quiere con Dios adentro y las tripas afuera,
los que escaparon de Herodes para caer en Hiroshima
entreabiertos los ojos, como los niños de la guerra,
porque basta para que salga toda la luz de un niño
una rendija china o una mirada japonesa.

Cuando se tienen dos hijos
se tiene todo el miedo del planeta,
todo el miedo a los hombres luminosos
que quieren asesinar la luz y arriar las velas
y ensangrentar las pelotas de goma
y zambullir en llanto ferrocarriles de cuerda.

Cuando se tienen dos hijos
se tiene la alegría y el ¡ay! del mundo en dos cabezas,
toda la angustia y toda la esperanza,
la luz y el llanto, a ver cuál es el que nos llega,
si el modo de llorar del universo
el modo de alumbrar de las estrellas.

My translation:

Infinite Children

by Andrés Eloy Blanco

When one has a child,
one has the child of the house and the child of the whole street,
one has the child who rides the rump of the beggar
and the one from the stroller pushed by the English governess
and the gringo child held by the Creole woman
and the white child held by the black one
and the Indian child held by the Indian
and the black child held by the earth.

When one has a son or daughter, one has so many children
that the street gets packed
and the square and the bridge
and the market and the church
and it is ours any child who crosses the street
and is hit by a car
and when they peep out on the balcony
and when they get closer to the pool;
and when a child screams, we don’t know
if what’s ours is the child or the scream,
and if they bleed and groan,
for a moment we would not know
if the ouch! is theirs or the blood ours.

When one has a child, it is ours the child
that accompanies the blind woman
and the Meninas and even the dwarf
and the Prince of France and his Princess
and the one Saint Anthony holds in his arms
and the one the Virgin of Coromoto has on her lap.
When one has a child, any laugh fills us,
any crying makes us quiver, wherever it comes from.
When one has a child, one has the world inside
and the heart exposed.

And when one has two children
one has all the children of the earth,
the millions of children the lands cry with,
the mothers laugh with, the worlds dream about,
those Paul Fort wanted holding hands
so that the world would be the a ring-around song,
the ones the Man of State, who has a pretty child,
wants with God inside and the guts out,
those who escaped from Herod to fall in Hiroshima
eyes half-opened, like the children of war,
because for all the light of a child to be extinguished
a Chinese slit or a Japanese look is enough.

When one has two children
One has all the fear of the planet,
all the fear of the illuminated men
who want to kill the light and lower the sails
and bloody the rubber balls
and drown clockwork trains in cries.
When one has two children
one has the joy and the ouch! of the world in two heads,
all the anguish and all the hope,
the light and the cry, not knowing which one we’ll get,
whether the way the universe cries
or the way the stars shine.

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