The charcoaled countenance of Ché-sus
            Weeps tears that fill the buckets
            Hoisted to believers in upper rooms
            Where nourishing waters no longer flow.
            Somewhere in the city,
            The patriarch,
            Deep into his dark night
            Searches for someone to cross
            His people over into a new Canaan.
            Havana's dawn
            Warms the marble back
            Of Batista's Christ
            Extending his hand
            In benediction
            Over blessed tourists
            Falling along the trail
            Of Saint Ernest
            Having drunk the rum
            Pouring from his side.
            In those early hours
            A cock crows a song
            Of contradiction and struggle.

Copyright © Louis Martinez, 2000.  All Rights Reserved.