Can poetry die? It is impossible, I think. Then Carilda Oliver Labra did not really die this August 29th ; in her books, in the San Juan river, in Matanzas all, she is Carilda as a phoenix, she is reborn, she constantly resurfaces in a thousand different ways.
“That life make them the best gift there is: to live,” she said to the children who gave her drawings for her 96th birthday; then she gave sincere smiles and thanks for feeling surrounded by friends in her house in Tirry 81, a place where many friends also arrived last Wednesday, but moved in a manner different from that of last July.
Gift for the world was to count on its existence, because the author of To the south of my throat, as expressed Miguel Barnet, president of the Cuban Union of Writers and Artists , in a letter sent to the Bride of Matanzas, is burst of light in Cuban and continental literature.
Daring, sagacious, eloquent, always surprising and flirtatious as spring, beautiful in every season was Carilda, National Literature Prize, because her beauty was multiple and impetuous, original as it is needed to transcend beyond the image, to surpass the abyss of age, with lucidity, in the geography of life.
Humble verses were born to entertain her on her birthday, but they do not lose validity, because her work does not expire as the body does: For your daring poetry, / for your original disorder, / for your courage, for the order / of your ideal, the daring / of your art, the joy / that you give to society, / for the slaughter / that is south of your throat, / who doubts that the San Juan sings: / Carilda, woman city …
This August 29th will have remembered his Ovillejo ?: What do I ask to live? / Die. / Of what I die without pain? / Of love. / And what is love for the being? / To be born. / It is sworn here by a woman / who is very alive: / of love died, but already / dying of love is born.
Carilda, before your breath arrested the soul of Matanzas is messed up, but in reality your death is impossible, poetry does not die, it becomes a deeper verse.