November comes with its faithful reminder, eight years since the imperishable farewell. It does not mark your absence or your departure, but the immortality of your essence. The vigilant and noble gaze is raised above clouds and seas. Legacy of a country, irreverence in the face of inequality, virtue of being Fidel.
I owe you, Commander, the trembling of the answer you would give today to each new conflict of those who do not understand the greatness of your work. I see a city that kisses its children, that has learned the value of books and the life of each of the beings that build it. I remember mornings and afternoons of rapture before the infinite stream of ideas that you gave without asking for anything in return.
These days your children call you, they make you be reborn in every work, in the new pines that grow. There is no school, no doctor, no stone, no mission, no solitary star that does not reflect the purity of your imprint. Man-Island, name and surname unblemished in the sunlight.
Fidel is not dead, how can life, the possibility of choosing, of loving the truth that he left us, die? Fidel is alive in history.
A child is born today without worrying about what his life will be like when he grows up, it is written in the first letters when he learns his name, in the vaccine that saved us from the pandemic, in every step we take from today until human memory dies.
Ring out your oath to the fatherland, in the throat with which we sing the colossal hymn that continues to call us to arms. No one will be able to rob us of even a piece of victory, we know the price in blood, sky, tears, river and fire that rises in our flag.
Your mourning is a green cape, a symbol to continue the history of Céspedes, Martí and Maceo. Landscape of heroes lining up for the machete attack. Avenues and walls give up their power in front of your image of undefeated leader.
No matter how much they want to erase you, your seed is infiltrating every inch of the Cuba you have built. Today it is bringing you back to your podium in the Plaza.
The memory awakens to listen to those who would mow you down. Brushes and charcoals glide across the infinite blue canvas to sketch your wise face in the clouds.
The word of millions flies over plazas, climbs palm trees and sails the seas in the figure of Fidel. Only those who know the metal that forged his back can speak of sunflowers.
Your image transcends the hardness of marble to inhabit the living memory of your people.
