Your poets are dying, Cuba

In search of freedom fleeing oppression in Cuba
In search of freedom fleeing oppression in Cuba

(Author’s own translation)
Their poets are dying and the country does not cry.
I fear it knows nothing.
Out of sight, out of mind.
More than from the body from the soul are dying.
They die in their letters.
In their incestuous cradles they die,
in its comfortable lunettes.

They die in the praises
that in the light of a burning sun,
they sing for a life from manuals and recipes.
Your poets die long and plaintively, Cuba.
And although they do not believe in their cheers and applauses
Almost all your poets, Patria, dance… dance…
Out of their minds they dances.
With furious frenzy they dance.

Outside of the choir, no one dances!
The officially non-poets, outside the choir, do not dance.
With only the spear in they eyes and the buckler in a corner
hidden and mysterious,
the officially non-poets do not dance.

And they will live for you, Cuba, those and the others.
Some to let people know the music they has not sing;
the others, the non-poets, the officially non-poets,
to have you, Cuba, alive
while the death-dance lasts.

Blas Anaya, Havana, Cuba
July 1989

Documento original en Español

Mueren, Patria, tus poetas

Mueren sus poetas y la Patria no llora.
Temo que nada sabe.
Ojos que no ven corazón que no siente.
Y más que del cuerpo del alma mueren.
Mueren en sus letras.
En sus incestuosas cunas mueren,
en sus cómodas lunetas.

Mueren en las loas
que a la luz de un sol que quema
entonan para una vida de manual y de recetas.
Larga y quejosamente mueren, Patria, tus poetas.
Y aunque no creen en sus vítores y aplausos
Casi todos tus poetas, Patria, danzan… danzan…
Fuera de sí danzan.
Con furioso frenesí danzan.

Fuera del coro ¡nadie danza!
Los oficialmente no poetas, fuera del coro, no danzan.
Con solo la lanza en sus pupilas y la adarga en un rincón
Oculto y misterioso,
los oficialmente no-poetas, no danzan.

Y vivirán para ti, Patria, aquellos y los otros
Unos para saber la gente la música que no se canta;
los otros, los no poetas, los oficialmente no-poetas,
para tenerte, Patria, viva
mientras dure la muerte-danza.

Blas Anaya, La Habana, Cuba
Julio del 1989

By lieshunter

Be aware of the grandpas!

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