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From where I come, Hunger is constant. A dictator rules with an iron fist, And we must follow him. Where am I now? This language is not familiar to me. Where are my Moros and Cristianos? Where is my Yucas al Mojo? This food and this language, so strange to me. Is this the land of the free? Is this the land where equality reigns? Their faces are so cold. Their eyes are so dead. What happened to these people? What has happened to me? I look up, and it specifies “Welcome.” Welcome to what? To this? Another place where: I am yet another member of the living dead? Where I am once again poor? Back on the island, I at least had some food on the table. Here, trabajo como una negra And I am almost starving. I feel as if I haven’t left. The dictator is new, But his ways are old. Was he truly electo? “Como puede ser?” I ask myself. Little Havana, is it called? I have found my kind! I know now that I am not alone! Aun así, the freedom promised is still far from reach. I miss mi isla bonita, mi Malecón. Isla de Pinos, I miss seeing you. Camagüey, why have you been taken from me? Celia Cruz... tu azúcar aun vive! The old men on the street say ¡Qué viva la Revolución! The young men on the street say ¡Qué se pudra Fidel! This new culture of men and women, so large and tocados de la cabeza. They know what they see on Telemundo Let them live on the island, the island I miss. Paola Dominguez |
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