By: Jesús Orta Ruiz
(September 30, 1922 - December 30, 2005)
it was the morning
of Santa Ana,
A July morning painted pink.
Nobody anticipated that the sun would rise
for the silenced
Tizol farm.
Santiago the Apostle, withered, slept
as if knocked down by the merriment
of Conga & brass band, celebration & alcohol.
it was the morning
of Santa Ana...
Oh the incubator
of the savior
Siboney farm!
What glorious roosters delivered the dawn
Hatuey's old & forgotten stances!
.......
They were determined on the road...
All over the landscape the flag spread.
On the caravan of the immortals
there were two women of stoic purity:
They also came from the heroic farm,
from the incubator of Mariana Grajales.
They were earlier suns that with their dawn
tore the fog from the Moncada barracks
The Homeland in darkness saw its clear paths
in the precise light of urgent shots.
it was the morning
of Santa Ana
The blood shed was not blood wasted.
......
How blind were the hands of the one
who gouged out your eyes, your dreamy eyes
the eyes of Abel!
The eyes of Abel!
that are now stars in the smiling sky
and illuminate the triumphant path of Fidel!
The martyrs each invade the day,
They brighten cities, they liberate mountains...
Now I hear the songs of Gómez García
in rapid transfer from flower to mockingbird:
July 26: hurts
From where did the dawn emerge:
avenging start date
of the insulted dates.
The hot blood of lives
broken by heroism
when betrayal & cynicism
danced on a calvary...
Oh necessary dew
to the flower of patriotism!
....
It is the voice of the entire land of Cuba:
-Glory to the morning
of Santa Ana!
From:
http://cartasdesdemacondo.blogspot.com
(Translation by Tamara Hansen)
Back to Article Listing
