24/08/1995. D1 0716
I sail in the bay of pigs.-
torches illuminate their tin muzzles.-
blunt as collision, the moon has fallen,
gull has today become the fear
we come with faces sprayed with mud;
we do not talk.
with an effort we build new tents,
waiting for the mob to reach us -
high guards to shut us down.
it is fear of the sea, a bonfire on the hill,
SUN THAT SENTENCED TO DEATH ARE LOOKING AT;
Those are good people, beaten to the bone -
small world on one line
of your dear chin.
and until dawn, with whip and all the strength
they beat tired and sick;
and in their hungry hands
they nail in wedges,
-and burn their faces