Nayaa, nin qarxi rabo yu ku gubin. Oo Malintu kaa daqaqo, ha is cunin. Oo Intaad ku margi laheed hilib jirkada ka bisil, Carabkaadi laq. Carabkaadi laq. Carabkaadi laq.
Girl, do not be singed by a man ready to explode. The day he leaves, do not make a meal of yourself. Before you choke on a tender piece of meat more tender than the skin which binds you, Swallow your tongue. Swallow your tongue. Swallow your tongue, Instead.
If he loved you Was it hard enough? Were your serenades The rattle of gunfire? Did he leave His Bolivian Diary Imprinted on your thighs? Were your eyelashes A dove’s wings Kissing the wilderness, Sweeping across The torso of A man that carried The Sierra Maestra On his shoulder blades?
On those blackened Nights in that Dense jungle Sticky and sweet Did he assign Guerrilla columns To each of your ribs? Did he make you writhe When he gave you Congo, Algeria, Cuba? Did he map Latin America Across your back With his tongue? Did he stroke Broken countries Back together With his fingers? Did he breathe The hunger he saw On that motorcycle journey Into your mouth? Did your body warm Hands that only knew The cold hard of steel? Did he lift up your leg Like a kalashnikov Over his shoulder?
‘Tania the guerrilla’ Dearest companera Did you ever tell him That ‘Tamara’ was softer? You were a woman Hips, breasts, thighs Combat fatigues Beautiful, beautiful When you left that day Did he tongue kiss you One last time For the revolucions sake?