The night Che Guevara Died

It was a cold night. The breeze from the Rio Grand was misty; the air full the stench of treason, and little did Che, the revolutionary, Che the man and Che the lover know of any of it. Nor did he care.

Little did he care, I submit, because he was a man in love. In love with his cause, and the woman in his life that stood by him in that cause. With her it all made sense.

More fundamentally, consider this: what is love, but a revolution? what is revolution, if not love? An individual, or a collective, falls in love with a cause - the cause of freedom, the cause of breaking prison walls and the cause of the will of the free human spirit, are as good causes as any. The labour of it all is their fight to attain that ever so near, ever so far an aim. And upon the palms of death, arrives the child of labour of that love, in itself a victorious revolution; A manifestation of the everlasting cycle of life, that has no beginning and no end. What more can be more human, and what else can be so close to being in love than to revolt for it? And the converse, is trivial, quam clarum.

To him, the world was written in black and red - white was to yet to be born. To his mind, the ever-so-subtle interaction between these two colours would produce all the other colours in the spectrum of light that was to be the road to his, well, death. I say that so hesitantly, because I really do have a problem accepting that any man can die when he is so much in love. To my aid rush the proofs of his hands all around, for all to see. To the point that even when his dead corps was being displayed by captors, he looked alive.

I submit that there is a side to this man that no one ever cared to consider, which is how much of a faithful and loyal lover he was. To let it all ride on a wing-and-prayer. To throw caution to the wind, in pursuit of "the one".

And to sum it all up, this is for you, Che. I'd imagine we'd be good friends. Even though we could not be more different in political ideology, we'd be marvellous friends if you were around, for we are both lovers. You, of your Marxist cause, and I, well .. of my one, the only one ..

Here's to you Che .. ever present, and not forgotten.

And here's to you, my one. This revolutionary still lives on, and while they may hang me and show my corps to the world, I shall never surrender you. For as long as I breath, I will fight for you, if only for my heart to keep beating your name till the day I am no more, and my soul has to come back from the realms of oblivion to guard you.

QED.

The hand ..

That rocks the cradle .. is the hand that rules the world ..

She will be, the world has been ruled, sent to oblivion, me with it and both my world and I are an irrelevance.

Her hands, will forever remain, the one that will rock the cradle and the ruler of worlds. Mine has just been unfortunate enough to cross their heavenly path, and fortunate enough to be destroyed by them.

Here's to your Godly hands my Goddess ..

QED

Hic requiescet corpus tuum

Legend has it that St. Marcus had a vision of an Angel greeting him that peace shall be upon him, and that his body shall lie where he was to be killed seconds before he was killed.

The irony of it all is that no one will know. No one shall ever know anything. Whether the vision was true; whether Angels do really manifest themselves to people; whether they exist at all nor, alas, whether St. Marcus is even anything more than a figment of some fanatically religious story teller's imagination. Our witness, after all, is a dead man, of questionable existence.

Pretty much like this being, falling apart, yet standing nonetheless. In love, to the point of no return and madness, yet unbeknown to the world, and very content being so. And there his body shall lie, in a graveyard made purposefully for him, and him alone, and a grave dug exclusively for him, by both of them.

Though he is no saint, and she's as real as the air he breaths, and blood that keeps his veins alive, which is no more, and the wind, and the rain, and the sun and the moon and the stars.

Pax tibi Marce, evangelista meus.

QED.