Illustration: Mayo Bous / Magazine AM: PM. The son musicians
To Nicholas Guillen
In the end,
after all the words
after the "act"
the speech, the flower
ajada of the trova,
the six black soneros arrived
completely black the flus, they arrived
like six gravediggers in a row,
until they take their places,
as if they were looking for
in the last quarter of the bottom
to the dead
And, resuscitator,
Broke the Son: Space
It beat again in full glory,
The seeds danced, the bristly
tripaje of the hides woke up singing,
the dry guiro built
the bones of another ear
to listen to the key of granadillo,
to mock the solemn response
of the jar, to stop corruption,
to listen to the tumbles of the only sea
of beauty,
silver vibration,
the being, the sound,
death trickster.
then it was
than the oldest
of the soneros came forward
breaking choir,
with a jerky gesture,
like someone who scares away a bug
of the body: it was not dancing
that: it didn't flow to the beat. hand raised,
against the grain of time,
ritualized the gestures
of love: he was grumbling something
to life escaping,
disobedient of zeal,
like a grandfather who gave bumps
to the distracted grandson: to the woman
something warned – beware! – to the jerk
flow, but not quite
he was bothered, like the one who treats
with someone smaller, sometimes
he burst out laughing at his frightening gesture
with the coconut, cradling again
the refrain, the maternal sway
of the saying: "He fell woodworm
to the peacock."
complacent
life and death looked at each other
like two old ladies in the mirror
when the soneros arrived,
when the real ones arrived
gravediggers, when they arrived,
when the dark came
ancestral demand of the heart,
when came what comes back
ripping leather,
without understanding composure
-“He got woodworm
to the peacock- when they arrived
with old congo guapería,
scaring away fear
With solemn laughing laughter, the gentlemen
of glory, when they arrived
-oh Son, oh Ser!- the Six Soneros!
(Taken from the book Visitations, Havana, Editions Union, 1970)
Very good..