4 | 17/02/2021 – 19:54 (GMT-4)
It hurts. It is obvious that those who believe Copyright Cubans writh in pain when the word they do not control goes out in search of the homeland they do not know: it hurts them that poetry leaves their palaces and enters Cuba with lots and barracks.
It has hurt those who obtain false copyrights for the title of sovereigns, the foremen of Seborucos, those who charge royalties because he spoke on behalf of the Cuban people. It hurts a whole regime that crumbles to see its essence key pulverized. They scream like vampires when their Homeland is dead or Death cracks forward the light that Patria y Vida projects.
It obviously hurts because they ran to throw ashes on themselves, to complain, to pull their hair. They crawl, salivate, murmur, stutter, curse, stutter in front of the cambol that taught them to think. They saw their petrified teacher’s christmas transformed into the flag of a living people fighting for their freedom and dignity.
“Let’s not shout Homeland or Death, but Homeland and life“Say Maykel Osorbo, El Funky, Yotuel, Gente de Zona, Descemer Bueno and other musicians in a song called to become an anthem in the urban genre of Cuba. The premiere fell like wildfire on the seats of the regime’s leaders and burned down this morning when they turned on their computers.
How could he dare, how! But if it is written in stone of very, the holiest, the biggest bearded man in history! How dare they challenge their vault key, their burnt iron, Homeland or Death? Oh, what else can’t these browns do! They wrap themselves in the flag, are super connected, speak on behalf of the Cuban people, turn the satanic verse, break the sad enchantment and illuminate a joy, a vitality, an air of freedom that infiltrates every house with Homeland and life.
It does not grant credit on the corridors of the cultural unit. I can’t even do O with a joint. They are more and more lost, dislocated, marking a retreat before a rap that hides them. Their legs, ideas and tongues become tangled and they rub against the ground, speaking snail tongues, leaving flaps and lethargic songs. Cuban.
They were hurt by what they did, with everything they did for blacks, “the most revolutionary,” as Oliver Stone confessed to Oliver Stone. And to fix the mess, the offense of the crowd, who better than a champion of the regime correct, with a French family name and the blood of a slave, of an Antillean colonist with a withered verb and a whip, a mayor without major morals or dilemmas when it comes to obedience.
And here we see the listener Lagarde grabbing the pen and sweating the ink to find what to say in the middle of the sea of tears that prevent him from seeing his locket. He says that of the apostle, but in Cuban he loves the image of Walter Mercado. And he talks about self-ignominy (sic), clichés and about the Cuban president. Delirium is Lagarde’s best weapon, even if her words are carried by the wind and she can’t even say guard.
Titles “Patria y vividores” Cuban this pen in the form of an article. Please bring those who believe in INDER to defend with opinions what remains of the regime. And above all, do not rush, tone your intellectual sphincters and endure, this has just begun.
How about you start with Latin so you don’t get dirty on top? For example, the Stoic Cicero, who said this about Well, where the country, which translates: Where there is good, there is homeland. Or the fifth Horacio Flaco, who in his ode recommended Remember when the road of life is steep to keep your mind, or what is the same thing: do not forget to keep your mind calm in difficult times.
But, nothing is made of nothing. Nothing comes out of nowhere. And from Lagarde or Cuban nothing else can come out. So Drink now. Now you have to drink! And wet the dominoes! And celebrate that the rap, music, art and sensitivity of Cubans have illuminated that anthem that is Homeland and life.