I found one of your old cigars,
in the back of my bed.
It smelled like you,
and your memories wafted back to me,
like old ghosts.
You look like a god in my mind,
a holy ghost,
my eldest hero.
Your cologne travels back to my nose,
through an old wind,
and I miss you.
You and your Cuban mindsets,
to care for me,
and watch over your family.
Mighty man of the house,
white-haired and tan,
your glasses make you see us all better.
Your cigar is with me,
smokeless and chewed,
a testament to my memories,
of you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem