My revolution,
Began the day I was born,
January 11, 1975,
A child of the light,
Through my youth,
The intense,
Scattered my thought,
From war to war, revolutionary to revolutionary.
In them I found a simple kindness,
Something that perhaps,
None other saw.
My revolution began,
When I opened my eyes to the world around me,
Unhappy with its displeasure,
I retreated,
Into words,
My private surrender,
To that which was not right.
In my revolution,
I sought friends,
Quiet ghosts,
That had long been done,
Asking them questions,
Of what to do.
Che,
Always on my mind,
As he had given up comfort,
As I wish I could,
For still I am comfortable,
In my revolution.
Che,
The romantic notions aside,
Gave freely of his soul,
For all people,
Longing to create a better world,
And doing it the best way he knew how,
Which doesn’t mean that it was necessarily right.
Che came to me,
Perhaps as young as thirteen,
When in my adolescence I related,
To something that I could empathize with,
I found simple kindness,
In his advance,
Toward a more just society.
In Korda’s vision,
Che has been immortalized,
Iconic now,
So that kids where his image,
Without paying the price,
If understanding the 5 w’s of him,
Which even now elude me,
At least in part.
In my revolution,
When my skin touched those storied sands,
Where Americans played restless,
Fast and loose,
With a people so beautiful,
It is where I long to be,
Hemingway knew it,
And my revolution found a home.
Che,
What could you have done,
Knowing the full extent,
Of what you did,
I wonder what you would think of now,
As you are a Ghost from the Past,
That many would prefer erased,
Where I would prefer,
To see your revolution embraced,
With words.
SDM
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