We don’t talk about Castro

We don’t talk about Castro (no, no, no).
We don’t talk about Castro. But…

It’s been six decades.
Sixty-two years of hunger, repression, and fear.
(No one’s allowed to speak).

Castro walked in with a murderous grin.
And he destroyed Cuba’s dreams.

Castro said, “Elections, what for?”
(In 1959.)
In doing so, he ruined us all.
(Abuela, get the boats.)
Let’s go to Miami now… but anyway:

We don’t talk about Castro (no, no, no).
We don’t talk about Castro. But…

Hey! I grew up in fear of his endless stumbling,
he was always on TV, muttering and mumbling.
I associate him with the sound of exile.

It’s a heavy lift, with a pain so numbing.
Abuela stayed in Cuba with the family wondering,
grappling with prophecies they couldn’t understand.
Do you understand?

A greasy beard,
guards along his path.
When he calls your name
it all fades to black.

His spies see your dreams.
They feast on your screams. But:

We don’t talk about Castro (no, no, no).
We don’t talk about Castro.