Poetry

On a plane to Cuba

Not the dimly lit streets of Paris, nor the snow covered footpaths of London. Spain does not call out her name. It’s the music in crowded cafes and the almost naked dancing women and the smell of chorizo sausage cooking, the long nights of a golden summer, the green islands in the distance, the memory of a long war glimmering in the eyes of the happy villagers. She is going to catch a flight to Cuba as soon as she leaves the snoring man who kidnapped her youth, ransomed her beauty. She is waiting for him to go to work,…

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