Power believes its own fabrication that epilogues are definite. Oppression, restraint and annihilation of courageous people are classified as accidents, because admitting the truth might cause the unwanted insurrection.
Instead, liars whose only staunch belief is the lure of capitalism appear on pristine screens, dressed in immaculate suits complete with a mask for the undesirable occasion of pathetic apology. They express sorrow at the murders that are described as accidents. Soon, the masks adhere comfortably to their faces, and the puppets forget even the texture of their skin.
I am thinking of whether in all these years, the companero and the rebel singer amalgamated their voices to the patriotic cry they acted upon. Whether their bullet riddled bodies found solace in the earth that reminds them how ideals can never be murdered. And, in my mind, I pay homage to the two epitomes of revolution, and turn to the solace in the written words of the loyal companero on the island of contradictory landscapes.