9 02 2010


Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo

In blogs fools mock them as the “Ladies in Greed” to humiliate them because they still have not starved to death, despite the fact they they are all missing a loved one in their family.  And a survival wage.

Ladies in Green: it is perfect this insolent showing off of Lagarde.

Green is the color of hope.

An infirm hope, perhaps, like all true faith.  A hope that is perhaps our ultimate blank check, like their canvas: a piece of paper that no one in Cuba will risk signing (or filming).

Dressed in white, which according to geography is a sigh of peace or of mourning, but they are trying to turn green again, inside.  A madness of laurels.

They march but do not let themselves wither.  They shout so as not to be vulgar.  They walk so as not to be tired, nor daunted by Cuba.

They do not beg, not even a shred of forgiveness: they are millionaires of innocence, skeptical of decrees, they fight the law like lionesses.  And review the virtuous vapors of the gospels.  They are revolutionaries.

They are beyond good and evil.  They exist by their own labor.  They reflect all the agonized light of our excessive noonday sun (a sun detached without rhyme or reason, bland in its repression).

They are so supportive because they are so alone.  They lost the horror of a beating by prosecutorial mandate.

These honorable women are inopportune of the island, an error in the matrix of the horror: what no career political scientist could have anticipated.

Nor do they explain much.  They hardly show any indication.  They move through the open veins of the Avenue of the Americas.

And Olé!

They fight stretches of its operating amateur.

Exposed.  Running.  In truth, they are executioners in which uniforms: robes not as holy as nurses.  Decapitated gladioli like a sacrificial ritual.

The cars honk at them.  The people stone them with words (for now).  They only take another small step.  Hugging the sidewalk between the closed gates and barred doors and a bedrock curb.

They turn under the traffic light at Playa and rest in the Plaza.  They go in pairs.  Singing verses.  Seeming like a Pioneer detachment.

In fact, they have been rejuvenated in their grief.  When an energetic and feminine people cry, the injustice also tends to tremble.

Some are very young (they would have been teenagers in 2003).  They are all colors and creeds.  I hope never to see them form an NGO. Nothing and no one should confiscate the limitless lust for liberty.

All around, the proletarian knights have finished each other.  They, women with feet firmly planted on the ground, as in the sky, still remain historically on the country’s stage of the new century and millennium.

The years zero.

The Ladies in Green (unfaithful tiles of our domestic dominoes).

Those of the improbably verdicts, of will as a virtue, of the white changes in Cuba.

A lesson in whitewash.

Cubansummatum est!

Cuba, it is finished.




One response

10 02 2010

When I find myself in time of troubles, Mother Mary comes to me, translating words of wisdom, let it be, let it read…

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