Gallego

Gallego, I read in a book
the story of extermination,
when in less than two centuries
they finished off the Indians.

They smoked their tobacco
and in the name of modesty
made them wear clothes
and die of heat.

Gallego, they told me
about inquisitive bonfires,
of muskets and swords,
and venereal diseases.

Gallego, they told me
that they ended their rituals
and didn't leave a single one
to dance the areíto.

Gallego, if it weren't for my anger not blinding me
I would have already set your winery on fire
like in ancient times, and under the protection of the law
they burned the Indian Hatuey at the stake.

Gallego, if it weren't for civilized people,
right now I would raid your embassy
and take all the officials as hostages
and send them to build causeways.

Gallego, they told me
about the slave trade
and your ancestral habit
of consorting with black women.

About the stocks, torture,
whip and barracks
and safaris with packs of dogs
to hunt runaway slaves.

Gallego, they told me
that despite the beatings
your troops could never stand
against the mambisas charges.

And they told me that when
things got tough
they sold us out to the Yankees
like a ripe fruit.

Gallego, history is a never-ending spiral:
one leads it forward, the other messes it up.
If Maceo comes back to life and goes to the Sol Meliá,
I believe another Baraguá will happen.

Oh, gallego, and you may wonder why I stir up
ashes with a sickly spirit.
I was walking with my ignorance and bad memory,
but it's just that yesterday I read the national history book.