Once I read a poem by one of your countrymen Nicolás Guillién. You knew it by heart and bellowed, Si me lo hubieran dicho We laughed, searched each other’s eyes for the depths of friendship, ours.
This poem, a beating heart laid bare, spoke of the conditional despair of our corrugated existence, how love loses its way in the disordered unfolding of lives. Two friends, soldered, who shared poems
joy’s tears, Silvio Rodriguez, Moros y Cristianos, flew pedalling through Havana. Our damp bodies hugged, undying friendship held to our breasts needing no poet’s lament.
Now, I can’t find that poem, and I’m not sure whether it was written by Nicolás, Jorge, Rafael or any Guillién at all, or what it really said about those two friends. I would ring you, or send you an email, but I no longer know where you live. When all is said and done, I know I can look through this window, holding my book of Spanish verse, certain only that the weather will change, and as Rafael Guillién answers ¿Destino? ¡ Oh absoluto Presente!