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This paper which was a tree

Is crying for its leaves

That's the route of your mind

To dance its branches,

For that canopy red flower

Of the Antilles,

So high up in air spirit,

Flowing right through that bark,

A water shaft,

A city of bamboos

Liquefied fructus,

Humid swamp for that

Night frog,

To sing without rest

Till the roosters brush their

Beaks with the first

Arriving morning light.

The joyful noise of the night

What might be coming from lips,

Or the rubbing of legs

The full harmonic tropical berserk

Begging for love

In abundance

Not one thousand

But one thousand and one

Lights of cucubanos,

Morse-coding lovers,

That come down,

Meow not now

Of the cats -

For that's the flavor,

Within the opening of the

Two mountains,

A glance following the


That goes to fish its memories,

Scratched one next to the other

Like the grooves of shells,

To think that no one believes

We are here.

The past in the smoke of the cigar,

Bring the future in-formation.

from Mesa Blanca

Victor Hernandez Cruz

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