El Café

De Nicomedes Santa Cruz

Decimas sobre la aventura del Café. Fondos musicales de guitarra en agua nieve y ritmo panalivio.

Tengo tu mismo color

y tu misma procendencia,

somos aroma y esencia

y amargo es nuestro sabor.

Tu viajaste a Nueva York

Con visa en Bab-el-Mandeb,

yo mi tropico crucé

de Zimbawe a las Antillas.

soy como ustedes, semillas,

soy un grano de café.

En los tiempos colonials

tu me viste en la espesura

con mi liana e la cintura

y mis arboreos timbales.

Companero de mis males,

yo  mismo te trasplanté.

Surgiste y yo progresé:

En los mejores hotels

te dijeron Áque bien hueles!

Y yo asenti "ui, mesié".

Tu de porcelana fina

cigarro puro y cognac

yo de smoking, yo de frac

yo recibiendo propina.

Tu a la Bolsa, yo a la ruina

Tu subiste, yo bajeÉ

En los muelles te encontré

vi que te echaban al mar

y ni lo pude evitar

ni a las agues me arroje.

Y conocimos al Peón

con su "café carretero"

y hablando con el Obrero

recorrimos la nacion.

Se hablo de revolucion

entre sorbos de café:

Cogi el macheteÉdudé,

Átu me infundiste valor

y a sangre y fuego y sudor

mi libertad conquisté!...

Después vimos al Poeta

lejano, meditabundo

queriendo arreglar el mundo

con una sola cuarteta.

Yo, convertido en peseta

hasta sus plantas rodé:

ÁQue ojos los que illuminé,

que trilogia formamos

los pobres que limosneamos

el Poeta y su café!...

Tengo tu mismo color

y tu misma procendencia,

somos aroma y esencia

y amargo es nuestro saborÉ

Vamos, hermanos, valor

el café nos pide fe,

y Changó y Ochún y Oggué

piden un grito que vibre

por nuestra América libre,

libre como su café.

El Café

By Nicomedes Santa Cruz

Decimas on the adventures of coffee. Accompanied by a guitar playing agua nieve and a panalivio rhythm.

I have your same color

and we share the same origin

we have the same smell and essence

and our taste is bitter.

You’ve traveled to New York

with a Bab-el-Mandeb’s (devil?) visa

with my tropic crossing

from Zimbabwe to the Antillas

like you I’ve been seeded,

I’m a grain of coffee.

In colonial times

you saw me in the thickness

with my liana on my hip

and my wooden timbales.

My companion of bad times

I myself transplanted you,

You blossomed and I progressed:

In the best hotels

they tell you "how good you smell!"

and I submissively answer "yes, thank you"

You of fine porcelain

genuine cigar and cognac

I have on a butler’s tux, I’m of "frac"

I get tips.

You are in the Money, I’m in ruins.

You’ve risen up, I’ve dropped belowÉ

At the wharf I found you

I saw that you fell into the sea

I couldn’t prevent it,

I couldn’t even throw myself into the water.

And we knew Peón

with his "street coffe"

and we were talking with the Worker

remembering how the country used to be.

He spoke of revolution

in between sucking the coffee:

I grabbed the macheteÉdoubtfully

"you instilled in me valor

and for blood and fire and sweat

you conquered my liberty! . . ."

Later we saw the poet,

far away and in his reverie

wanting to change the world

with his prose.

Me, a converted pessimist

questioned even his plants:

"What eyes have been illuminated,

what a trio we make

Poor people who offer discourse

the Poet and his coffee! . . ."

I have your same color

and we share the same origin

we have the same smell and essence

and our taste is bitter . . .

Let us go, brothers of valor

the coffee asks for our faith

while Changó and Ochún and Oggué

asks for a shout that vibrates

for our America that is free,

free like its coffee.