Qué Cosa Fuera...

What can be said…
of the cantos of a revolutionary who’s outlived his epoch;
sadly clinging to ideals that are as dated as the ’59 Chevy that
passes by every night, back and forth across Paseo del Prado.
there is something heroically romantic about a man like that,
one who doesn’t fear the sweeping tide of time, nor the touch
of a new generation trying to bury him alive.

What can be said…
of a man who wields the mallet of his words against the stones
of resistance, blocking his path, obscuring the histories
of Latin America; strangers both to the English speaking world.
a singing poet who’s felt the full effects of delayed time, finally
lost; searching for lost time, like Proust, only better because he’s
defending what he believes in.

What can be said…
of Silvio Rodriguez pouring me a drink, vodka and lime, as we sit
atop La Habana Libre , shootin’ the breeze of change as the sky
sinks blood red into the Caribbean sea. ‘there’s got to be something
to that,’ he says sipping his drink and looking past me – as if he
could see the seconds tick by. ‘these are the new mountains,
Silvio, madness dwells within plain sight.’

Qué Cosa Fuera?