1 01 2010


At six in the afternoon night has already fallen.  Night closed, reddish, a cloak of clouds falling of its own weight over the virgin city of the first of January.

Then it rains.  The smell of rain, a memory, an eternity.  Just a shower is enough to drench the soul, to throw out that best forgotten, to blur our too much Cuba only to recover her from the imagination of a love.

It rains at six in the afternoon on the last Cuban first of January.

It rains like always. For always.

It rains. You rain. We rain.

The street, abandoned already after the hangover of nothing at the end of the year, now forsaken.  It is beautiful, clean, human, feeling like solitude.

Breathing is purified with the ancestral odor, molecules of rain that could be enough to build it again, a damp Cuba from nothing, a Havana unique since the year ten, a Revolution of smoke in the face of our immediate history.

Because it is smoking.  I don’t know from where, but I see threads of smoke misting off the asphalt.  Smoke rising like an answer to the falling rain.  Smoke in the eyes of a flustered Cuban because it is still raining so firstly on the first full day of 2010.  Smoke in the throat of a Cuban screaming silences who doesn’t want to stay stuck here.  Smoke in the tortured ears of the beauty we belong to by diabolical or divine design.  Smoke that will never return to be ours every time it rains then stops, immediately.

Because it clears immediately, always.

The illusion is instantaneous, less than an instant.

Adiós Cuba. Adiós truth, buried in our bodies. Adiós poetry unpronounceable hidden in the depths of all Cubans always. Adiós, now.  Adiós before these same streets our elementary and ephemeral flesh runs another night, another shower, perversely worse. Farewell.




2 responses

9 01 2010


9 01 2010

Con Mucho Gusto Amigo!

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