Poetry: Jahangir Khan
Triumph of the Revolution — 1959
In 1959,
a revolution rose with bare hands and burning faith.
Fidel Castro led the storm,
shattering the imperial puppet Batista
and the long shadow that fed him.
Cuba had been pushed out of U.S. chains in 1902,
called “independent”
only as empire pleased,
only as power allowed.
They forgot the Apostle of Cuban Independence,
José Martí—
who dreamed a “Republic for all.”
His voice became a wall
no empire could climb.
1895—
Spain’s colonial night was broken.
1953—
July 26 ignited the dawn again.
The assault on the barracks
was not defeat,
but the first heartbeat
of irreversible consequences—
for Cuba,
for Latin America,
for Africa.
Fidel stood before history and said:
“History will absolve me.”
And history listened.
Even now—2026—
Castro fills the air.
A crowd of proletarian footsteps
echo in the metro of time.
They march toward victory
against a disorderly, fascist empire
drunk on its own vanity.
Two hundred and sixteen sanctions—
how desperate must a dictator be
to starve an island,
to suffocate ecology,
to wound humanity,
to punish children
for daring to exist free?
No imperial drones are seen,
yet peace has no sky.
Still, the loving masses move forward,
not for revenge,
but for dignity.
Civilization—why are you silent?
When humanity is mute,
you vanish completely.
What policy is this, O world,
that denies responsibility to the farmer,
to the people’s power?
The day he said
the farmer shall be the entrepreneur,
the people shall own their oil,
the Yankee vultures trembled.
They call themselves doves of peace,
yet will not let peace fly.
The constant roar of Trump—
naked words,
crow-language,
barbarity dressed as policy.
A killer of peace.
Ask history:
Is Simón Bolívar dead?
No—he lives,
a destroyer of colonial chains.
This is Bolívar’s continent.
And Maduro carries
the sword of that brave lineage.
Yankee destroyers cannot steer this destiny;
you sit behind the wheel
with no right to drive.
Global peasants, unite.
People’s power will converge.
World unity will rise.
Imperialist vultures—
do not fly over Venezuela’s sky.
You will fall,
melted like worthless metal,
forgotten by history
that no longer forgives.
