"The Promise" Part 3

I packed what I could including the photographs
I got on the plane while I dismissed everything I loved,
While my heart was pounding into the clouds,
The homeland boils down to childhood friends, a broken family and some teenage girlfriend.

It was 6 o'clock on any Sunday in July, a woman holding my name on a piece of paper that dives in the distance and was the contact and my guide during my stay in the city, we got in the car, a Russian Lada while each traffic light Revealed sepia contrasts of a city gnawed by the waves and time, quite active and moving, Havana beat in every corner and everything was new to my country boy eyes.

The first few days were well, I ate in a state dining room where, although humble half-filled expectations. it helped me to save money for food, I started to know the ISA(Superior Art institute) my status as a scholarship allowed me to sleep inside the university campus which was an excellent advantage
To meet people who contributed to my formation and who deeply keep my gratitude towards them.

Havana is a hive of dreams, passionate loves, art in the streets, rumba and timba are mixed with sugar cane, strong coffee, those who stayed and those who left, thirty million songs about those who stayed and those wholeft, Wars and dictatorships and their rebels, havana was the epiphany that real life is deeper and hurts much more in the broken hands of hunger, sweat, tears of souls that pounce on the P -4 a sub-plot and in mass, far from being an absolute truth that yellow documentary that I saw from my house began to dissipate the pearl of the Caribbean, when it was already night and the doors were closed, howled the stomachs and then I knew that some illusions Of magic are special effects, and that the greatest spells sometimes do not dismiss fake fires, they are subtle, like fear.
But that in every soul as in every vein there is the power to change history, or perhaps to connect with the one that is destined to live, of so many lives that I could choose, I chose to be on the edge of the boardwalk, keeping track of the events that gave birth Men like Guevara or Fidel, finding me again with the place of the congregation of all my Taino ancestors who raft the sea currents of the Caribbean sea, reconciling myself with the salsa and the timbales.

It's night and I'm thinking of my mother, from my window I can see the twilight that paints the sky red, the soft breeze rocks the palms and the wind, saltpeter cuts the lips, hunger is a reality unless you Accustomed to fill your guts with rice,
The days pass and I miss every day more and more the food from home and the consequences of not being gratefull in the past teaches hard lessons.

Mother to a month of absence, I write to you in your day, immersed in the melody of a Havana that far from resembling that of books, seduced me with the tender charm of a city with two contrasts.
One of bars and cabarets, salsa, strong cigars and white rum that in constant movement invite you to lose yourself in it,
The other, when it is late afternoon and old Habana remains depopulated with crowds and flashes of cameras, I usually observe
As a fanatic in love who watches his dancer get rid of makeup, and then his musicians comfort to cheer the tourists, trapped themselves in those few hours where the sun is hidden, and with that image I lie down, I hope that Aragua follow Being like that sweet little Andalusia of which my father wrote, and that the distances and their insults, then, at the end of any twilight bring me back to you, women on this day go around this room
Although she is small and pale, she knew how to open herself to us.
So full of nothing