BOLIVARIAN FIRE

To comrade President Hugo Rafael Chávez Frías, tireless soldier of the Bolivarian cause.

Like huge thunder that shakes tyrants
lightning in the plain and in the mountains
wake up all the peoples of the whole america
Giving the longed for time at dawn
with a new sun that shines for the poor; and
It’s soul of arcabuces that homeland shoot
extending friendly hands that protect us
with its mighty fire of amerindian sap
firm and sound revolutionary audacity
everlasting light of the future that is prepared.

With full love for humanity and justice
the ideal of Gran Colombia is proclaimed
as a clean fountain that freedom spills
and growing unity without greed stains;
It is the genius of Bolivar who sponsors everything
to see our America Our confederated
and be born from the universe, so, as a sword
that breaks the chains and yokes of opprobrium
and the stressed ways that express overwhelm
until you hear his best tune of glory

Impossible to forget the sublime purpose
the church of dignity that said it all
that with swift blood of heroes found his way
reminding us that you don’t exempt yourself from battle
who thinks of the fight as the weapon that redeems.
No one doubts that the day follows the night
nor that national daughters of their rebellion
with their sparks of throw they will light the meadow
fanning the flame of his warrior people
and the sacred fire against tyranny.

FUEGO BOLIVARIANO

Al compañero Presidente Hugo Rafael Chávez Frías, incansable soldado de la causa bolivariana.

Como enorme trueno que a tiranos estremece
un relámpago en el llano y en la cordillera
despierta a todos los pueblos de América entera
dando la anhelada hora en que ya amanece
con un nuevo sol que para los pobres resplandece; y
es alma de arcabuces que patria disparan
extendiendo manos amigas que nos amparan
con su fuego caudaloso de amerindia savia
firme y atinada audacia revolucionaria
sempiterna luz del futuro que se prepara.

Con pleno amor a la humanidad y a la justicia
el ideal de la Gran Colombia se proclama
como limpio fontanal que libertad derrama
y crecientes de unidad sin manchas de avaricia;
es el genio de Bolívar quien todo lo auspicia
para ver laAmérica Nuestra confederada
y nacer del universo, entonces, como espada
que rompa las cadenas y yugos del oprobio
y las hincadas maneras que expresan agobio
hasta escuchar de la gloria su mejor tonada

Imposible olvidar el propósito sublime
la cátedra de dignidad que lo dijo todo
que con rauda sangre de héroes encontró su modo
recordándonos que de batallar no se exime
quien piensa en la lucha como el arma que redime.
Nadie duda que a la noche le sigue el día
ni que naciones hijas de su rebeldía
con sus chispas de arrojo encenderán la pradera
avivando la llama de su gente guerrera
y el sagrado fuego contra la tiranía.

Versos Insurgentes is a book of poetry published by the FARC-EP.

Below is a translation of one of the poems by Jesus Santrich.

Marquetalia

(English Translation)

The heroes of Marquetalia and those who, following his example, have defeated the colonialist perversity of the “Patriot” Plan

Between gunpowder and the green of life;
cataclysm that turns into hope
by nourishing the future with the fallen …;
the deep roots of consciousness
paying with the blood of brave people
between cities and insurgent mountains
who speak with the voice of Jacobo Arenas
to say homeland from their insides.

Marquetalia is Marulanda in conscience
the announcement of the liberated homeland
Marquetalia is in the town in resistance
is Bolivar who returns with his sword

The resistance is the sowing in the darkness
of the seeds of fire of Alborada
where Jacobo Prías ingenia verses
with words of guerrilla ambushes:
Marquetalia is the poem of the dawn
that unleashes its socialist desires,
the sacred tricolor of the flag
in the before, now and tomorrow.

Marquetalia is Marulanda in conscience
the announcement of the homeland released
Marquetalia is in the town in resistance
is Bolivar who returns with his sword

Marquetalia are the grooves that frolic
with the certainty of the bread for the hungry;
Marquetalia is the wheat field and the cornfield
the news of the emancipated land;
Marquetalia is the crucible of hope
Isaías Pardo raiding the skies;
Marquetalia is a communal epic
of which the New Colombia dreams and fights

Marquetalia is Marulanda in conscience
the announcement of the liberated homeland
Marquetalia is in the town in resistance
is Bolivar who returns with his sword

The utopia of Hernando Gonzales fulge
and the victory of the people is revealed:
Marquetalia is Marulanda in resistance
Marulanda is poor raised;
Marquetalia and Marulanda are plots:
freedom and dignity are the harvest;
against the Yankee who murders and sacks us
Marquetalia is of the poor the trench.

Marquetalia

(original Spanish)

A los héroes de Marquetalia y a quienes siguiendo su ejemplo han derrotado la perversidad colonialista del Plan «Patriota»

Entre la pólvora y el verde la vida;
cataclismo que se torna en esperanza
al nutrirse el porvenir con los caídos…;
las profundas raíces de la conciencia
abonándose con sangre de valientes
entre urbes y montañas insurgentes
que hablan con la voz de Jacobo Arenas
para decir patria desde sus entrañas.

Marquetalia es Marulanda en la conciencia
el anuncio de la patria liberada
Marquetalia está en el pueblo en resistencia
es Bolívar que regresa con su espada

La resistencia es la siembra en las tinieblas
de las semillas de fuego de alborada
donde Jacobo Prías ingenia versos
con vocablos de emboscadas guerrilleras:
Marquetalia es el poema de la aurora
que desboca sus anhelos socialistas,
el sagrado tricolor de la bandera
en el antes, el ahora y el mañana.

Marquetalia es Marulanda en la conciencia
el anuncio de la patria liberada
Marquetalia está en el pueblo en resistencia
es Bolívar que regresa con su espada

Marquetalia son los surcos que retoñan
con la certeza del pan para el hambriento;
Marquetalia es el trigal y la maicera
la noticia de la tierra emancipada;
Marquetalia es el crisol de la esperanza
Isaías Pardo asaltando los cielos;
Marquetalia es epopeya comunera
del que sueña y lucha la Colombia Nueva

Marquetalia es Marulanda en la conciencia
el anuncio de la patria liberada
Marquetalia está en el pueblo en resistencia
es Bolívar que regresa con su espada

La utopía de Hernando Gonzáles fulge
y la victoria del pueblo se devela:
Marquetalia es Marulanda en resistencia
Marulanda es pobrería levantada;
Marquetalia y Marulanda son parcela:
libertad y dignidad son la cosecha;
contra el yanqui que asesina y nos saquea
Marquetalia es de los pobres la trinchera.

FIRST CONFESSION

I confess
in the cozy silence
of the still things
and among the fragrances of pine and tender eucalyptus
between cold hoods
of sad tangles
of frailejóns and ferns.

I confess
with the certainty of the heart
sown with dignity and courage.
I confess with the pregnant soul
for the promising flags of love
that fan the glare
of the rebellious people.

I confess and say,
that inhabit my mind
Indian hands
and black hands,
white hands
and the mestizo hands …;
human cosmic hands
of my thoughts
as muscular links of faith in the purest feeling
of fading soon
of grief

I confess my confident vision
of lying defeated sorrows,
downcast by pure communion
of the rebel rebels
boldly raised,
determined,
thrown away
against the cruel exploiter
that had them subjugated.

I confess my bliss
of dreaming listening
the chords of good,
the sublime notes and silences
of peace without tears,
in line with the promising idea
of the shared multiplied bread,
of collective wheat bread
with heat of purified people …

I make my sincere narration
of modest devotion
and I confess that my evocation,
It is also,
a provincial song of justice
I wish they didn’t wilt
the first roots of yaravi
and the lumbalú …,
the integral hug of changó
and Pachamama …
that are stoked by the logs
of racial
fire of the universe.

My confession is the invitation
to make the brotherhood march,
the walk of humility,
in pursuit of the truth
and of the common yearning for freedom.
With the fire of steel
pointing against the tyrant,
accept my call, partner;
let’s build the new dawn,
comrade…

My confession is to tell you:
walk brother,
let’s break with the light of optimism,
the storm of pain
of the orphan farmer of the land
glaring shackles
of the accumulated exploitation;
let’s fill abysmal hatreds
that skin the soul …
let’s fill those hatreds with an air of peace
and winged dreams of freedom
that uproot the bitterness
of the false words
and the acrimony of the silences
that keep silent in front of the reproach.

Come, come with haste brother,
with rebel passion, comrade,
with the treasure of pure truth
of the new man in the word.
Come on, let’s redeem
the flowers of love
and don’t defeat us
the false splendor
of mean wealth.
We are going to defeat the grief
with David’s sling
In the battle…,
with the persecution of goodness
in every petal of humanity,
without the banal temptation
of the damn capital
In their consciences.

 

CONFESIÓN PRIMERA

(Spanish original)

Me confieso
en el acogedor silencio
de las cosas quietas
y entre las fragancias del pino y del eucalipto tierno
entre fríos capotes
de enredos tristes
de frailejón y helechos.

Me confieso
con la certeza del corazón
sembrado de dignidad y valentía.
Me confieso con el alma preñada
por las promisorias banderas del amor
que avivan el fulgor
del pueblo sublevado.

Me confieso y digo,
que en mi mente habitan
las manos indias
y las manos negras,
las manos blancas
y las mestizas manos…;
las cósmicas humanas manos
de mis cavilaciones
como eslabones musculados de fe en el más puro presentimiento
del desvanecimiento pronto
del desconsuelo.

Confieso mi visión confiada
de yacentes penas derrotadas,
abatidas por la pura comunión
de los rebeldes sublevados
con audacia levantados,
decididos,
arrojados,
contra el cruel explotador
que los tuvo subyugados.

Confieso mi dicha
de soñarme escuchando
los acordes del bien,
las sublimes notas y silencios
de la paz sin desgarraduras,
al compás de la idea promisoria
del compartido pan multiplicado,
del pan del trigo colectivo
con calor de pueblo purificado…

Hago mi narración sincera
de modesta devoción
y confieso que mi evocación,
es también,
una provinciana cantata justiciera
que quisiera que no marchiten
las raíces primeras del yaraví
y el lumbalú…,
el abrazo integral de changó
y de Pacha Mama…,
que se avivan junto a los leños
del fuego
racial del universo.

Mi confesión es la convidación
a hacer la marcha de la hermandad,
la caminata de la humildad,
en pos de la verdad
y del anhelo común de la libertad.
Con el fuego del acero
que apunta contra el tirano,
acepta mi llamado, compañero;
construyamos la nueva alborada,
camarada…

Mi confesión es decirte:
camina hermano,
quebremos con la luz del optimismo,
la borrasca de dolores
del campesino huérfano de la tierra
fulminando los grilletes
de la explotación acumulada;
colmemos los odios abismales
que deshollejan el alma…,
colmemos esos odios con aire de paz
y alados sueños de libertad
que desarraiguen el amargor
de las palabras falsas
y la acritud de los silencios
que callan frente al oprobio.

Vamos, vamos de prisa hermano,
con pasión rebelde, camarada,
con el tesoro de la pura verdad
del hombre nuevo en la palabra.
Vamos, vamos a redimir
las flores del amor
y que no nos derrote
el falso esplendor
de la riqueza mezquina.
Vamos a derrotar los desconsuelos
con la honda de David
en la batalla…,
con la persignación de la bondad
en cada pétalo de la humanidad,
ya sin la tentación banal
del maldito capital
en las conciencias.

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.

Or maybe, yes

I do not believe in love.

I do not believe in permanence
Nor in the prolonged feeling
Nor in fifty first dates
Nor the first thousand times.

I do not believe in the eternal
Nor in forever
Nor in Him anymore
Nor in the glass half-full.