The beat of the son
Is in sync with the rhythm of my heart.
The conga y timbales
Through my veins, traveling,
Feeding life and oxygen
To my feet,
Arousing, stroking, sensually gliding
Through the streets of Havana.
Aroma de café
Twirling the earthy smells
Of the aged tobacco leaves, gently
Disintegrating in the hands of
The old country folk, Guajiros.
Dilapidated, exquisitely architectured
Eroded by the sea,
By the ancient spirit of La Revolucion
Line the streets with vibrant combinations of
Starburst shades and pastel hues
like delicately carved pastries.
Buildings scraped and bruised
by the memories
Of those exiled, and the longing
Of those left behind.
Intimately combined colors
Sing to the tunes of the son
Enchanting the spirits of Cuba,
Embracing its parks, its town squares
Its majestic sea wall.
At night the stars are serenaded
With old boleros of
Unrequited love, romantic passion,
Pain drowned by old Havana rum,
The country life of the guajiro, and
Memories of an unknown distant land,
Dainty women flower the streets
With pink perfume, and a sensuality
As untamable as wild grass
Mulata Linda! Mira que tu si
Que tiene Tumbao!
She braves a world where
La Revolucion forgot
Her voice existed.
In her, a determination as relentless
As the Granma.
Dominoes pound against the backdrop of
Salsa, Rumba, Danzon, and Mambo
Like the 3:2 rhythm of la clave.
Each play critically calculated.
“Me Pegue” calls the victorious voice
commanding the praise and glory
of the passerby.
Old men arguing in a language
soft and invigorating like the sweetness of
The mango and guava,
Yet jagged and sluggish like
Eclipsed by La Lucha
Cono! Que Vola?! Comepinga!
Vivid hand gestures
Whirling and spinning
Guapea moves conveying
Passion and enthusiasm
For the harmoniously untamed conversations.
The streets are a tapestry of laughter.
Jovial voices breaking through
The monotony and the physical boarders the
Cubanos are bound by.
Their spirits dance to the tempo
Of their ancestors. Afro-Cubanismo
Guides the timing and pulse of
The raw innocence of children
Carries a wounded dog on
Its back under the blazing sun,
Dribbles and punts
the ball in the
summer rain; and
somersaults into the ocean
like airborne apostrophes
and commas from the
crumbling piers of
In the Son like in the
Spirit of the people,
There is a strength that
Persists beyond La Revolucion,
Beyond social-political idealism.
It’s a strength only found
In the divinity of being.