I have undertaken my last battle; the battle of dignity. I want you to know that I am a complete, integral revolutionary, I will not retreat a single step regarding the goals that we have set.
Abril 11/18
A Prose of Love for Her
Havana, February 2015.
By Jesús Santrich.
*
I found you to the south of the day
As coming out of the anguish
Of the hurricanes;
you were between palms and
Taino gulls
Glowing in the coordinates of a sun;
At that moment
the sunset undressed before my eyes
and the sea welcomed me
with the abysmal embrace
of its deep salty blue
in which the moon submerges
its ardent glow
and the whispering breeze
among shipwrecked spells.
To calm the cyclone, snatched
from my desire to have you,
you gave me a piece of your dawn,
the keys of Elegguá,
the elekes of Obbatalá,
the oshé of Shangó,
the bells of Oshún,
the omieros of the pantheon,
in a polymita the rainbow,
the waters of the Almendares
and the sacred necklace of Yemayá.
With a wisp of your Siboney twilight
you have my deepest secrets of love,
and my last vision of the Castle and the Giraldilla;
then you put the strength of your cemies
in my soul
and the iridescent guanín de Hatuey
You hang on my chest …;
You gave me the amulet of Mayvona,
the patience of Anayana,
the Cross of Calatrava,
the murmur of your waves
and a song by Juan Formell
to fill the saddlebags
with my hopes.
The truth,
it was enough for me “a white rose
in June as in January”
but you gave me more,
much more,
in the unspeakable tranquility
from your sky,
in your sweetly mulatto flavored flavor,
in your damp presence
gone from the hands of Atabey,
and from the pristine tears
of Boinayel
so that you would receive the sowing
of Olofin.
So,
you made me live the anthology
of your hours
bouncing between dreams
from which I do not wake nor want…
even less when I hear
the moan and the song,
the happiness and the crying
of your waves in El Mégano,
and the rumor of the time that
spreads walking and resuming
the ancient cobbles
and the ancient walls
of your aged architecture
full of nostalgia,
made up of memories
and furtive desires
of legendary lovers.
How I love you my Havana,
because you succeed in filling my loneliness
of the port without sailboats
with that hoarse joy
that only the corals have,
and anoint it you know this patina of glory
of the Moncada,
the inks of the Escambray,
or the Sierra Maestra,
when in its summit of glory
the butterflies pose,
and your music hands, in short,
caress my dock nostalgia
my nostalgia for anchor and sad networks;
my nostalgia of night bolero
in your accomplice aged seawall.
How I love you, my Havana;
I love you so much
that I give myself to your orishas
to keep me guarded
in the depths
of your bohemian nights;
Indigena Havana,
Black Havana,
Mulatto Havana,
sacred land of Havaguanex.
And I love you in the melancholy airs
of a baroque concert,
in the smoke of your cigars,
in the setback of a son
of Manolito Simonet,
because … “I’m obsessed with you”
and the world is witness to my frenzy …, ”
that’s why my heart thunders
like a “Trebuchet once more”
or like the cannon shot at nine o’clock,
and my soul dances and runs
like everyone who is
“Crazy about my Havana”,
crazy about his salsa,
crazy about his son,
and the touch of the güiro,
and the parrandón,
and the deepest danzón,
and the notes of Chan Chan
played by Compay Segundo,
or the voice of Laritza Bacallao
intoning with Cándido Fabré
melodies that embellish the world.
How I adore you my Havana
because you are my dream,
and I do not wake up nor want to,
except when listening to
the “Black Rhapsody” of Lecuona,
the “Cuban Dances” of Cervantes,
the “Zapateo por Derecho”,
and the fulgent chords
of Frank Fernández
interpreting the candor,
the passion and the fervor,
of the loving embrace
of Manuelita and the Libertador
that Master Angulo
virtuously sculpted,
eternalizing in the rock its splendor.
How I love you my Havana,
because in the dramaturgy of Estorino
I was convinced that “Penalties can swim”;
and of the bucolic tenths
of Indio Ortatomé
the faith of observing without being able to see
“seeing, as one
dreaming in a sad night,
landscape that no longer exists
with eyes that no longer see”
but that keep the light of the soul
with which I found the blue unicorn
that took me to the arms of Yolanda
singing a Trova of Silvio Rodríguez
who told me,
that “wings are not necessary to make a dream “,
that” enough with your hands
enough with the chest is enough with the legs and with the commitment”
It was like this that I learned singing
and confirmed fighting,
that “You do not need wings
to be more beautiful
enough good sense immense love …;
you do not need wings
to take the flight”
and then I picked it up,
and I bewitched myself,
and I was charmed with your spells,
and I flew like a hummingbird
while the “Abracadabra”,
of your legend
placed before me astonished
“Apostle” by Juan Sicre,
to the Grajales de Teodoro Ramos …,
and in a certain way”
a film by Tomás Gutiérrez
in which the tenderness
of Sara Gómez
shone, only matched
by the flash of Korda
that eternalized leaves
the clean look of Che.
How I love you my Havana,
because from your hand
has seen the reviving of Gisellee
in an impossible arabesque,
in a great attitude …,
between the twists and turns,
a fouetté and the entrechatde
the dance of Alicia
que jumping, jumping,
or resting on her tips
played by God .. .
How I love you,
my brunette, Habana del songo,
of the myths and the corsairs,
of the saints and the paleros,
of the songs and the mysteries
that sings to Oloddumare
with the same fidelity
and to La Virgen de la Caridad,
either from its guanajatabey seed,
or from its genuine maker,
or from the deepest
of Yoruba goodness.
It was with the verb of “Songoro Cosongo”
and the charm of your drums
that I traveled to the sources of the Oddan
to search for the Abakuá roots,
to get drunk with the songs of Efí,
to learn about the stories of Efó,
to listen to the hides
and the African voices
that talked
about the secrets of the fish Tanze
trapped in the memory of Nasakó,
and in each mulatto accent
of that Camagueyan of
the four anguishes,
From somewhere in the spring,”
he taught me how to have
it that I had to have.
I got entangled too
in the power of your
porters
trying to cage your sun in my hands,
and I listened in the distant silence of
a dark dawn,
the overwhelming sadness of Moctezuma
in a deep concert
of the genius of Vivaldi,
when the albasus cried
their tears of rocío
that caressed the face
of a red-eyed jungle of Apapa Efik:
I saw jungle in his eyes
and found in his deep gaze
the mysteries
of mother Sikanekue,
and I found the leopard Tanze
on the tam of the Ekue
que sounds with the spirit of Sikan,
with the blood of the rooster,
with the skin of the goat,
with the magic of Calabar …,
waving in the wind
a miraculous phrase from the memory
that also spoke with timbre of conga
y of timbales, saying “abasí serí Ekue maya beki…”;
Yes, as the persistent echo of the past
revealing that “in the voice of the drum God speaks to us”,
discovering the mystery of dance, of origin … and of ritual.
Then I continued
on the path of the Zohar
and among the dust of the hours,
I saw a legion of brothers
marching next to Cespedes,
Maceo, Máximo Gómez and Mariana;
and I was no longer your Spanish owner
who with your own hand you had,
and I understood without hesitation
that, although men can fail
“Words do not fall into emptiness”
But Santiago …
Santiago, it came to my mind
like a long street turned into Aqueronte,
where Panchón walked
in his mission of Charon,
enjoying the happiness of the sunflowers
while through the mourning I felt that the lights
of the darkness of my soul were extinguished;
but no,
no,
simply not,
because the sound of the sun
was again blowing,
from the east to the west,
from Guantánamo to Pinar,
in the polyrhythm of the batá
which announced the “Feast of Fire”.
I have traveled with you
to the kingdom of Nsambia,
to the power of the 16 Mpungos,
to the very same root
sof the Manikongo kingdom
as to the magical world,
to the wonderful world
of the verb of Carpentier,
with which I took the car of time
towards the century of lights,
following the route
of your lanterns of ghostly lights;
the same ones that gave birth in the past to
the avatars of Esteban and Sofía,
caught up in the Jacobin impetus
of Víctor Hugues …,
only to know
that “words are not enough
to create better worlds”,
and that there is “no more promised land
than that which man
can find in himself…”
Or ask Mackandal then,
ask Boukman,
and drink with them
the blood of the boar,
evoking the Houngan,
so that the night of August will glow
“The night of fire”
the night of freedom,
and finally bloom
an emancipated world,
as in the Moro mambo,
as in the essential colors
of the “History of the Caribbean”,
as in the snails and the flowers
that explode from the “Interiors of the Hill”,
from the “Festines”
and the “Dream” of Portocarrero.
How I love you, my Havana,
because in you the past and the present are drawn,
because in you my entire Cuba is reflected:
because you are in the hurry of Marti
in his thunder of lightning, in his starlight,
in his myth of iodine
poured into the sand
that kisses the sea;
or because you are in the cowbells of the moruá
when they sound in Dos Ríos,
announcing the luto
por El Apóstol that rides towards eternity.
How I love you Havana,
because you are the microcosm
of real impossible stories;
because in you I found the way
to travel to the seed
doing the trade of darkness
that made me discover the secrets
of the kingdom of this world,
scourged by the wars of time
in which all history was forged;
because in you I was intimated the scenario
in which the Ekue dreams hidden in the fambá
every second
of the consecration of spring
flooding
with exuberant anti-Cuban hallucinations
that had the Taíno magic of “the real
marvelous”
that allowed me to grasp the profuse metaphors
of your perennial colonial pages
in which the Marquis of Chaplaincies
“Lay on his deathbed,
the chest armored with medals,
escorted by four candles with long beards of melted wax”
that marked the path
of the fantastic Amerindianidad
through which Melchor walked,
marking firm paths from which Sotomayor
jumped trying to reach
the flight of Arnaldo Tamayo the bird,
who knew how to find the key to play with the stars
and bring up the heavens
the sacred symbols “of the long green lizard,
with eyes of stone and water. ”
How I love you my Havana,
because of you I received the hand of Orunla
with the power of the babalawos
who gave me the spells
to walk among the hurricanes of memory
wand cross the domains of Yemayá,
and retrace the footprints of Handel and Scarlatti
entangled in the notes of Stravinski and Louis
Armstrong,
feeling the evidences
of the transience of life,
the reversed march of time,
the brevity of the instant
that usually extends in a blade of sol
against your breasts
when the tocororo flies,
when the real palm dies,
when the amber cane is born
and the children sing La Bayamesa,
with the same love
that Hemingway
put in the boat of the old man
who challenged your seas
to catch the immense fish of his upright obstinacy…,
until reaching
the port of his vanquished age
to resume life to continue dreaming
lying on a beach,
watching “a moon as bright as that
like the one that infiltrates the sweetness of the cane”,
shouting alive to Fidel” who vibrates on the mountain
“caring for the ruby, the five stripes and the star.
Your place is valueble for me. Thanks!?