"Yo quiero cuando me muera,
sin patria, pero sin amo,
tener en mi tumba un ramo
de flores y una bandera."
-José Martí

I walked down polished streets
looking for signs, directions,
looking for the way home
home but a distant memory

I saw the royal palm tree in my dreams
the smell of honeysuckle blossoms
in late evening, sweet sirens
beckoning me come

to lonely lands of fabled gold
a plastic empire
where everything is sold
and everything its price will have

by sundown, where golden gods
bed alabaster bunnies
parading breasts and butts
to sell the latest car

or dream or chosen truth
a land of instant food, political
correctness, cyberlove
more tempting than the babylonian whore

the welcome mat is spread
all I must do to enter
is to be one of many
a carbon copy of all women

idealized, deodorized,
homogenized into the current mode
no hips or butts allowed
and accents left right at the door

the house of old is torn
the erstwhile haunts of children
live in gray photographs
the sands of Varadero, sky

reflected in a sea treacherous
in its darkened beauty, mountains
remain in picture and in song
and yet, even the language fades

one word each day,
in lonely lands