The first time he came here
Hemingway caught nineteen marlin and three sailfish
And after that he was in love forever.
He drank mojitos at La Bodeguita
And daiquiris at El Floridita.
Many mojitos, many daiquiris.
You can see the very stool where he used to sit.
I walk the narrow cobbled streets,
Past peeing dogs and begging urchins,
And grand buildings rotting away.
In the house outside Havana,
His fishing cap lies on the bed,
Shotgun shells stand in rows on the desk,
And stuffed heads of African beasts adorn the walls.
Another tourist bus is pulling into the parking lot.
The waters are fished out now.
The man who lived here belonged to no country,
Belonged to no-one and nothing but his work,
His tender furies remain in the land and sea.
Shotgun shells stand in rows on the desk.
Another tourist bus is pulling into the parking lot.
No comments:
Post a Comment