CEIBA DE CUBA
Copyright 2009 by Lili Bernard
| (Spanish) |
(English) |
Aché Ceiba,
Árbol Sagrado,
Templo de las almas
De mis antepasados.
Jamás te arrancaré
de tus raíces profundas
que nacen de la tierra
como fortalezas,
que se confunden con paredones
que tragan los llantos de tantos
por donde bebes el agua
de la tierra que sangra
pa’ bailar en tu columna
verde y alta,
tu tronco protegido
vestido de juventud,
con espinas ubicua
de variados colores
como colmillos de caimán
que acaba de comer carne.
Pa’ cantar en tus ramas
que alcanzan el sol,
espinosas, rociadas
por arrullos que caen
del cielo protector
perdonando los pecados,
abrazando el alma,
y borrando la raza.
Pa’ pasar y adentrarse
en tus flores fastuosas.
Y rellenar almohaditas
con tu fruta de lana sedosa
para las lindas cabecitas
de los angelitos
que duermen y descansan
antes de seguir volando
con las nubes que sobrevuelan
la manigua de nuevo. |
Aché Ceiba,
Sacred Tree,
Temple of the souls
Of my ancestors
I will never rend
you from your roots running deep
which rise from the earth
like a fortress mistaken
for walls which swallow
the moans of many,
from where you drink the water
of the earth that bleeds
to dance in your green
lofty column,
your trunk protected,
decorated in youth
with ubiquitous spines
of varied colors
like fangs of a gator
who has feasted on flesh.
To sing in your branches
that reach the sun
spiny and sprinkled
with lullabies that fall
from heaven above
who washes away sin
embraces the soul
and erases the race.
To pass and enter
through your fabulous flowers.
To stuff little pillows
with your silky-floss fruit
for pretty little heads
of angels
who slumber and rest
before continuing to fly
with the clouds that pass over
the jungle again. |
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Copyright 2009 by Lili Bernard (click here to view videos of this poem performed in the spoken word)
Ache, Orisha.
Acere, hijo de Obatalá
¿Que bola,
turista Fidelista,
wannabe Cubanista?
Am I too sexy
for your shirt,
too sexy for
your shirt?
What is it?
Is it everybody
looking for a hero?
Or is it just
that photo?
Or your
Charisma?
Or the idea?
Or your moto
diarhea?
Is it the way
you suck
on your cigar?
Or is it how
they laid you out
like Christ on the Cross?
Like the cross on your cap?
Or is it an x?
Like the mark on the forehead
of the son of the man
who said to his fam,
“You think I give a dam
the bitch is knocked up?
Go kill the rich ho, mofo!”
Oh, it’s a star,
superstar!
Read more . . . |