I Am Not Christ Or A Philanthropist,

Wrapped In A Police Blanket, I Watched The Rain And Smoked One Black Cigarette After Another.

I Wanted To Take Part In The Liberation Of Even A Small Piece Of Enslaved Latin America.

There Are No Borders In This Struggle To The Death. We Cannot Be Indifferent To What Happens Anywhere In The World, Because A Victory By Any Country Over Imperialism Is Our Victory, Just As Any Country's Defeat Is A Defeat For All Of Us.

And Yet Every So Often, The Heart Of America, Shuddering With Indignation, Sends A Nervous Spasm Through The Gentle Back Of The Andes, And Tumultuous Shock Waves Assault The Surface Of The Land. Three Times The Cuppola Of Proud Santo Domingo Has Collapsed From On High To The Rhythm Of Broken Bones And Its Worn Walls Have Opened And Fallen Too. But The Foundations They Rest On Are Unmoved, The Great Blocks Of The Temple Of The Sun Exhibit Their Gray Stone Indifferently; However Colossal The Disaster Befalling Its Oppressor, Not One Of Its Huge Rocks Shifts From Its Place.

I Now Know, By An Almost Fatalistic Conformity With The Facts, That My Destiny Is To Travel.