XXXVII. An Open Letter to A Cuban Mountain

Far off in the distance. I am drawn by a mountain that I,in this life at least have never visited, only witnessed, stretching my eyes across the ranches and the plantations, no vehicles in sight, carless highways, obstructed by only the odd cow herd being crossed over the road by the farmhand and the speed of that moving tourist bus. This comes in all as one recollection, and here in this I am connecting back to past lives and the sweetness of the accent. Does the Sierra Maestra Mountains need a Buddhist hermit? To climb down to help the local campeseno pick their coffee and tobacco, and to tend to all their hotels and hospices, uttering Amidas grace in a rough and quickly learnt Spanish, happy in my working class ethic, bang the bell and call on my Compañeros and Compañeras to toil for the other who is toiling harder, without being recognized in some far off injustice. In a land that praises artists and poets of the people. Could I be welcomed there? Perhaps this is the reason I hear the mountain range calling, and in every moment after hesitate in writing some official document asking for a right of passage in my own exile from what is not of virtue for I have no idea as to who it would be addressed. Does the mountain receive mail and does it grant upon one its golden seals of approval? And what if the Sierra Maestra dictates, though I am tired of the miles that lie between us. The workers of the world had already united in me, and I am feeling just as stunning as any idealism now. Imaging dharma guerillas pouring down the mountains sides in all eight directions. Marching on to liberate this spirit without ever needing to entrench themselves in foreign soil, without ever leaving the scarcity, that is this holy island. This longing I can’t quite explain having only been a tourist, and I purpose that I should have taken more photographs back then, now with this passport that is barred from leaving Canada. The mountains calling here on summer nights, become A yell, here, what I’ve written is an open letter to a Cuban Mountain. No stamps or envelopes needed. I shall now live to be liberated by the multitude of orchids and the rawness of hand-rolled cigars. This mist rising up the mountain, this rain pattering on the roof of my future practice hut.


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