Not everyone is trying to leave Cuba
And not everyone can afford to leave,
(Even if they wanted to). I've got my people here:
Family, friends, memories, hopes, dreams, blood, sweat
And tears soaked in this salt-seasoned coral cloaked in mist
And tropic trees. More than twenty generations
Of ancestral bones buried— rotted and petrified—
Under the weight of tobacco and sugar cane fields,
And a history of barbarianism glorified across the seas,
Washed up against the limestone shore of Guantanamo Bay,
Grinded and wasted on labored cobblestoned streets
Running from Havana to Santiago.
Cuba, this rock—in the middle of the ocean,
At times a beacon for those searching
For a better place in life's storm,
And other times a torch used by those seeking
An upper-hand in the struggle for power and subjugation.
But those instances come and go
Like the day's tide and hurricane season.
In between the challenges, I take pleasure
In the simple things this life has to offer:
A plot of land, a home, family, frien