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poem_197_Cuba_Libre!
He was a strong believer,
In the government foundation
Of justice and freedom,
For solid operation.
As an apostle of independence,
He securely represents,
The Cuban secession,
In all aspects and sense.
“I am Jose Marti.
Hello my friends!
I have come here today,
To make some amends.
I am a poet,
Innate at heart.
However, come to Americans,
I wish to tear them a part!
Cuba Libre!
With such dignity I write.
And no longer silent,
Must I keep such contrite!
Down trodden Cubans,
Lend me your ear!
Listen to my word,
So we ma fight without fear!
I shall lead our revolution,
In defense of our constitution.
Cuba Libre our chanting absolution
For the best Cuban Resolution!
me hear,
Your blood-thirsty roar,
To fight against,
In your corps!”
So began the revolution,
Jose Marti in charge.
But when Americans got word,
They sent in for barge.
General Valeriano Weyler,
Or Butcher now named,
Was sent by the States,
To stop what Cubans acclaimed
He fought with passion,
As a Spanish native,
To help the Cubans,
See American probative.
And so stepped in,
General Butcher Weyler,
To put an end,
With a Cuban compiler.
“I am Valeriano Weyler!
But Known as Butcher because,
American yellow journalism,
Caused this up roaring buzz.
I built a Reconstruction Plan.
Separate insurgents from poor.
This was the first step to
Winning the terrible war.
However, my plan did not succeed,
In keeping these people protected.
When in the reality of it all,
They died of what I neglected.
Disease spread rapidly.
Malnutrition quickly grew.
Mainly women and children,
Where the ones in there too.
In America however,
Through yellow journalism I was,
Made of such a monster
Not seeing beyond true cause.
I was criticized by most
So I resigned my position,
After my only supporter,
Was assassinated in opposition.
I fought to save,
But only killed.
And through yellow journalism,
Butcher did build.
30,000 died at my hands.
My decision a dud,
And I stand before,
Hands stained with much blood.”
Through the words,
Of these victims we hear,
As we take a moment to,
Not just see the tear.
“I represent 30,000,
Individuals kept,
Supposedly for the best,
But through it we wept.
Our children went hungry,
Day after day,
And nothing would change,
Regardless of our say.
The women became sick,
And unable to care,
For the children who also,
Became sick, with bones bare.
But still, we were held,
In these camps for our good,
Yet, the let us grow weak,
This, no one understood.
We lie here dieing,
In disease and starvation,
As Cubra Libre lives on,
Trying to help our nation.
By the end of it all,
We left with no pride.
No liberation was attained,
And half our country died.”
30,000 lives,
In the hands of one,
Fighting against a revolutionist,
That really never begun.
Nearly fourty-two years later,
Cuba still remains in dispute.
Some stay a bureaucracy,
While others refute.
Cuba Libre just a dream,
Jose Marti jut a figure,
Butcher Weyler just a man,
And 30,00 we never did configure.
Inspired by: A U.S. History project/play
Created on: October 31, 2007 - 0136
