Havana, where the girls have cocoa skin,
Dancing while the paint flakes from orange peel walls,
Twirling in the warm rain, sea spray at their backs.
Old men recline at tables discussing not a thing,
Cigars twisting beneath bushy moustaches;
Not one is tired of the other.
The tip tap of children playing
Does nothing to diffuse their freedoms,
As the sun shines on Havana the same as every day;
Linen and Cadillacs proliferate
Amidst the smiles of all.