It wasn’t a too Christian life that brought him to his too Liberated homeland, but a barbaric war that devastated Cuban families to the point that he killed himself in a such a scenario of caudillos and criminals; his black frock coat attracting the Spanish bullets and the machete slashes of an Afro-Cuban ex-slave.
Equally his hand raised today in an L more lucid than loquacious. That kind of noble stone on its pedestal is like collecting signatures, like reuniting true wills to give the socialist system its final thrust (frying it in its own unbecoming sauce).
Then let’s go with him. Let’s make a decentralized flash-mob in Central Park. Climb on his shoulders and even turn back to pee on him (nothing more human than exchanging fluids). We have to get him out of those dead marble cloisters.
Translated from Elblogahora.
