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Without a word, the pompous muse
He set aside and understood:
From such a withered branch he chose;
To hang thereby his doctoral hood.

He knew when fools were laid to rest,
Honor and tears would yet abound.
And that of all fruits, the very best,
Was left to rest in hallowed ground.

All was beautiful and all was right;
All was musical, with much reason.
And all, like diamonds, poured out light;
Sparkling bright, and without treason.

On his brave heart, was alas engraved
A sorrow patently hidden from all eyes.
A stalwart patriot of a land enslaved;
To live and suffer, because of spies.

So trembling thus with joy, and dread,
He grasped the heavens, with hope untold.
The distant firmament above his head;
Perchance some mercy would with Grace unfold.

He knew the inhabited world of man was weak.
There, citizens hunkered gladly to the ground;
And that his kinsmen, bold or meek,
Sought from him encouragement profound.

He saw across the distant skies
A wounded eagle bravely flying.
Knowing how his wizened eyes
Could sense the venom — for him lying.

With this rear view that he obtained,
More worthy than a jeweler’s trove,
He surmised that he had then gained,
A knowledge earned from Heaven above.

He heard a sigh across the earth.
It was a sigh from oceans deep:
The kind of sigh that gives one mirth:
A native land — rising from sleep.

So he rejoiced in being free,
Despite the suffering and the blame;
Knowing that such a man as he,
Would yet, in dying, erase much shame.

He trembled when amidst the dung
They threw him down, only to be fed
With vermin, and with wasps that stung.
Leaving him lifeless — to be dead.

Twice, for an instance, he did stare.
His soul reflecting on his life;
Twice, he hoped his life they’d spare,
Without rancor, although with strife.

He knew with instinct, how a man could live,
If he kept courage, steadfastly by his side.
Then physical death would surely not deceive.
His conquering spirit would in him survive.

In such a state he now saw surging
Amidst the pressing painful boulders,
His chrysalis self, with butterfly wings, emerging;
From heap of refuse rising, up to his shoulders.

A vision seen through dead of night.
Around his head a circle fall;
Angelically providing light;
Archangels approaching, with a roll call.

They knew his name; they knew his past.
They knew the bickering, and the woe.
He knew himself the die was cast.
He’d be examined, from head to toe.

While though a traveler with earthly smarts,
In Heaven, he’d be a mere newcomer anon.
That, despite his achieved legalistic arts,
He’d be a novice, his heroic feats now all done.

A sincere man indeed, let none deny.
José Martí, with a patriot’s script to liberate
An island nation; and, by gunfire, shot to die;
Writing verses that will forever reverberate.