When they have gone home drinking coffee
sighing deeply looking interestingly grief pale
and talking kindly about me,
I’ll dust ashes off my body,
cool off under an oak
before joining the wind that will blow all the way to the Caribbean Sea.
In Havana I’ll look for that lovely girl who sold me cigars in 1954
if she isn’t there and the tobacconist has turned into a shop selling useless trinkets
I shall not despair
but emotionally embrace the old woman
who sits on the church’s step smoking a cigarillo,
there is something about her eyes I remember,
then I’ll ride in an old Chevrolet,
drive to the beach and admire the turquoise sea.