Where are the mothers with babes at the breast?
Where are the infants, are they too at rest?
Where are the sick and all in need of care?
Were they left to perish, they are not there?
“There are no reconcentrados now.”
Where are the crops of food once stored in domes,
Around ten thousand humble Cuban homes?
Devoured by fire and borne in flames away,
No wonder then that men can truly say—
“There are no reconcentrados now.”
Robbed of their cattle, crops and homes destroyed,
Years of hard labor in hours rendered void,
Huddled near cities, watched like beasts of prey,
Deprived of food they all have passed away,
“There are no reconcentrados now.”
Shorn of liberty, bound in lines of death,
They know their fate and dread the buzzard’s breath;
They pray for mercy, turn their eyes to God,
Then fall in death on their loved Cuban sod,
“There are no reconcentrados now.”
They beg for bread, but cruel Spain denies,
She does not heed heartrending children’s cries,
Nor the mother pleading in anguish wild,
“Pray give a morsel to my starving child.”
“There are no reconcentrados now.”
No father’s prayer, however strong and good,
Can draw from Spain a single ounce of food;
No mother’s tears, however freely shed,
Can make one less among the Cuban dead:
“There are no reconcentrados now.”
See the starving babe, hear its wailing cry,
Searching for food it finds the fountain dry;
What sorrow racks the dying mother’s head,
The babe must die, alas! the mother’s dead:
“There are no reconcentrados now.”
See the hollow cheeks, see the sunken eyes,
See the shrivelled limbs, hear the children’s cries,
Their flesh all gone, reduced to skin and bone,
With scarcely strength to give a dying moan:
“There are no reconcentrados now.”
See the poor creatures dropping to the ground,
And ravenous vultures hov’ring around,
Watching life flicker, and with ghoulish shout,
Greedy to come and tear the vitals out:
“There are no reconcentrados now.”
Hear the brave father plead in manly tones,
“Starve me, tyrant, but spare my little ones,
Then take your dagger and with demon’s art,
Plunge it to the hilt in my broken heart:”
“There are no reconcentrados now.”