Carnavales

Where did the infrastructure of memories end up?
Where did the carnivals go, I don't remember.
Where did Mayra Tirado with her medieval hair end up
and the stars of motorized escorts.

Where did the magic of the big dolls end up.
Where did so many songs go.
Where are the knives and the fireworks exploding.
And Tata Güines and El Perico are crying.

I would go to a box if I had that luck
and the children of you-know-who to show off in La Tribuna.
Eastern Organ and everyone riding piggyback
and in the cobas showing off what their daddies do.

I bring a kiosk inside this viperine tongue
and a confetti tangled in my forehead.
I bring a carriage with the lights off
and a conga that's good for nothing.

Tell Catalina not to buy any more crap
and to tell me where she hid the beer.

The lobster was in its sauce,
but I only have national currency
and now I don't even have enough to go to a Paladar.

The real price of the dollar can now be calculated,
there are exchange houses in my tropical Cuba.
Count the pesos we give you here:
one, two, and three; four, five, and six;
and the twenty-five, you know what that is.