Written in Patria o Muerte

When night shrouds this Havana street

its buildings might be

freshly painted,

no electrical wires struggling

for power, no despair

hanging from a full moon

pale orange in duplicitous sky.

 

Night the great equalizer—

what we do not see

cannot make us sad.

Fifty-six years: pride

defiant against insult,

hair-trigger designed

to bring a nation to its knees.

 

In daylight the ragged shells

of buildings gone to age

succumb to the tropics’

sudden downpour,

claim a redemption

written in patria o muerte,

traded in a currency

 

called spirit, a future not sold

to the highest bidder,

not recognized

on any stock exchange

or designed to dominate

and kill.

We live in community, or die.