The bullets fire,
pistol shots ring loud and proud,
across the beach.
Sickle and hammer lover men,
wearing Guevara-grins,
absorbed in Castro power trips.
'Para ustedes, mis hermanos'
my brothers we will fight,
through death.
The beach sits silent,
a patch of holed soldiers,
lie on the freedom-lost beach,
a fallen country,
betrayed and lost.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem