Matanzas also has its own soul. It grew slowly as in a dream, lulled by the words of the deceased aborigine. Matanzas is as sweet and lonely …
Ercilio Vento Canosa
If you understood that I am something more than dust under your feet, you hear my voice, which is not one, are the voices of my dead and yours.
I saw you born, I was from before, from the first to make home in my body. City went after, but home had always been. Not asked have blood on my behalf and yet somehow I glad when they say Matanzas, aboriginal rebellion is invoked by the Spanish past.
I mulattoes feet and still carry scars on the back for those who were uprooted from an African bed to sleep on my floor, but the land on which sepultas one of yours also becomes your homeland.
I am the rumba born of fatigue and lamentation, White´s violin, the slow pace in a danzón of Failde, my face is always looking Milanes a turtledove from a window of Gelabert.
There are three rivers that flow through me, from the southern carildiano my throat to my belly bay, which gives as much light as those pieces of city that have gone to the bottom of it; and three are the streets that survive the modern dress made “to rule and string”.
But the cracks of your forgetfulness, your forgetfulness, they end up drowning under the rubble, I have too many shadows and empty spaces in the body, finish using the obligatory indolence disguise because you did not understand in time, I’m more than just dust under your feet. I’m Matanzas.
Original text byon Oct 12th, 2016