Even though nothing is given, I feel a presence within me. Even though the desire to establish themselves passes over their heads, I feel their unmistakable presence within me. The same presence that shelters the simplest things in its hands, so simple, that I don't know who I am.
II
Some men live within me, so I think, or so must be the precision of the lie. Some men live within me. I don't know how to name them. I don't know how they can live within me. Men of the abyss, sometimes so arid, without power over themselves, men who have made a country, a border, a word, a song, an anthem, a secure homeland, an island without precise borders, a social scar with causal limits. They know it, I know it. That's why I must invent a name that invokes them. A winged and emigrant name, a name without weariness or anguish, a name where my body embodies all its names, and it is to be said of all, the deepest, the kindest. I can call them Ariel, Patroclus, Hector, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Martí, Bethlehem, Basra, Damascus, Cairo, Havana, Two Rivers, and to their right, the fateful gold of the desert, and to their left, the blue blood of the Nile in my veins. Therefore, I come to conceive the most sublime name, incapable of being forgotten. Because if I were not prepared for such a litany, the island would be a scar in the sea, waiting to die of the flood. That is why I come with the voice of a smile, Sanskrit in my mouth, and the whole sea in my hands. That's why I come splendid and dangerous before the souls who invoke me, and you, daring one who inhabits me, deep within your name, deep within, will not know if I am the homeland or the blessed Host.
III
In the most mournful place in the homeland, I am still unborn. In the most nocturnal space of my soul, I am not yet the judge.
Don't judge me for who I am. Don't judge me for who I am. Don't judge me for being the same as everyone else. I was there, imbued with languages I don't know: Arabic, Spanish, Hindi, English, Babylonian, Persian, languages of the desert, of the undergrowth, and the machete, I have been there. Don't judge me by the aridity of the clothes that define my body. I have been there in so many ways that I must not be invisible. a dog, a rat, a burden of torture in the machete, I was there and I am your deformed ego in utopia. I am your insides divided into enormous layers and although my body is not an onion or a cabbage, I burn in my center like a palm tree, a mountain, a bush at war. A cell, a map, an island, a disarmed system. A fertile seed that waits in the bilges of ships, in the rivers of blood, in the broken lands of misfortune, in the filth of slaves in the holds, in the inheritance that illuminates and kills the star. In the stones I owe to the sea, and because the sea, as much as death, is a wingless bird that covers itself with a certain multitude of beings...
IV
The basic condition for knowing those who dwell within me (family, friends, and wandering spirits) is based on the difference of knowing who I am. Bleeding for their pain, for the chalice of existence. Knowing what they do when they construct me. How do my genetics shape my ability to speak, think, and act according to their own precepts without being a puppet? Having a certain freedom against the system imposed on me from within. Knowing them, conversing with them, blessing them, in short, naming them. However, among them is the one I feel destroys me, the one with the pen, the one who wounds me when his literary zeal tears me apart:
On the grass of the notebook, the trail of the pencil tears the white plain of the page. I fear for the page and its immaculate innocence, while the word penetrates the root from the subsoil to the fiber. Words and non-words, commas, syllables, feelings and sensations in the very process of writing. Punctual moans of the heritage. A prolonged scream in the silence of the corrosive letter, the same one that penetrates the line of your life. The one you cannot corrupt, because it doesn't exist, or because there are many kinds of words: the brave, the impassioned, the starving that are not forgotten, the punctual in the sharpness of victory, the hungry, the insatiable and unsatisfied, the insidious, the petulant, the needy and malnourished, the ones that support you in the firmness of your voice. You discard them or they are eaten away by hatred. The substantial ones when they come from the mouth of another, the ones that furrow the strangest conceptions of language. The ones that open sentences that describe our own humanity. The bandits and scoundrels, the ones lulled by the sex they provoke. In short, the naked bodies at the tip of the pencil like profound obscenities, the watermark on the word. The pencil that transforms the erection into the indefinite silhouette of the poem. The Antidote to the loneliness that overwhelms us.
Thus writes this being who lacerates me, the one who forbids me to call myself Lezama, Victor Hugo, Virgil, Dante, Cintio, Fina, Queen Maria, Koser, Rimbaud, or any other from whom I could have been born. And this being of eternal journey through the deserts of the mind. This man of strange cities. Of the beyond. Of the eternal cold in the house of libis. The one with little sanity who doesn't know if the sea belongs to him, or if the sea is simply the frozen snow, the eternal letter, the star that illuminates and kills, the bleeding diphthong of life. As if it were the same and not the same. Man, word, verse, syllable, dissident letter; it is the same being who answers me:
I have seen that the rest of men nail their judgments to me so that blood may write what they will. I have seen men, or rather, their heads, cut off generously so that their blood may flow beyond the land, hemmed in by the sea and its utopias. The land, however, does not store the good in us; it hears the songs of the abandoned journey. I can barely discern the charms of the pilgrim.
V
The island scar that opens in my chest and is immutable, Born in the deep throat, The deepest in history.
VI
The anatomy of my body is a country, it is true.
In the inhabit the men I do not know.
The anatomy of my body is a country that is feared.
A country that is built in the abyss of my organs.
A country of entire cities, razed,
cities like viscera, cells, atoms,
immense streets of coagulated blood,
Highway in the spine, railroad central in the trachea,
liver swamps, forests and maniguas on the mount of Venus,
And a huge piece of sea, on the back of the forgotten calluses.
The anatomy of my body is a country that is suspected.
The anatomy of my body is an island, which implies judging who I am.
An island on the edge of the machete and broken neck of the enemy.
A deep coast without margins ...
A stone….
A sand for the landing of the martyr
A sea….
Anyway, a story.
The anatomy of my body is an island, I already know
Meanwhile, knowing that the idea is a mark consumed,
my hands like any animal with its own body,
Clean the path of the country in the palm of the hand.
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