From Monday the 8th at 7pm. Without water, nor clothes, nor toiletries, without light, on a concrete bed.
Imitating my patriotic readings
they suppressed my horizon.
I took hold of your name,
of memory the last station.
Every letter engraved
on the silent walls of my cell,
swiftly came the hummingbirds
to applaud the end of my concert.
The spit lost its reach,
roaches played on my face,
my mother gave me a one way ticket
although she knew that love wasn’t surrendering.
The train departed with one aboard,
smudging the image on the window,
for an instance two dried up cats
were following the shadow of a dream.
Prison. 1580 San Miguel del Padrón
In solitary confinement and starvation.
Here lies Angel Santiesteban Prats, controversial, patriot, slandered and friend.
He lived and died as he imagined the best novels.
Translated by: Ernesto Ariel Suarez
12 April 2013