Then the palm trees were left alone.

Cuba, my love, they tied you to the colt,
they cut your face,
they separated your legs from pale gold,
they broke the pomegranate sex,
they pierced you with knives,
they divided you, they burned you.

Through the valleys of sweetness
the exterminators went down,
and in the high mogotes the cimera
of your children was lost in the fog,
but there they were reached
one by one until death,
torn in the torment
without its warm earth of flowers
that fled under their plants.

Cuba, my love, what a chill
He shook foam from foam,
until you became pure,
loneliness, silence, thicket,
and the bones of your children
crabs were disputed.