The Gate of Isis


I do not care about Hemingway
And his cult for tourists anyway.
86 per cent humidity
I am floating in numb vacuity.

Little pink shrimps were most murderous
The cathedral is coral porous.
All around, Havana is crumbling
Old Cadillac’s splendidly rumbling.

The Comandante smokes the cigar
The Che was killed and it is bizarre
That revolutions keep on dying
And nobody seems to be minding.

How I wish I could share life and love
And tell poor Cubans of things above
I don’t know how to let them know
That they could make the High Wind blow.