To Carmen Miyares de Mantilla and her children

Jurisdiction of Baracoa, April 16, 1895

Dear Carmita, My Girls, Manuel and Ernesto,

I am writing you from Cuba, in the shade of a hut made of royal palm fronds. The blisters I got from rowing the boat that brought us to land are already healing. There were six of us. We arrived at a beach covered with stones and thorns, and we are all right, in a camp surrounded by palm trees and banana plants, with the people on land and with our rifles by our sides. Along the way, I picked the first flower for the mother and ferns for María and Carmita, and I found a colorful stone for Ernesto. I gathered them as if I were going to see you, as if your house — your protective and welcoming house, which I always see before my eyes — were waiting for me, rather than a cave or a hillside.

My happiness is very great, Carmita. Without any illusions, excessive thinking about myself or selfish and puerile joy, I can say that I have finally attained the fullness of my being and that the honor I see in my fellow citizens, in the nature to which our courage entitles us, enraptures me. Only the light is comparable to my happiness. At all times, I see your pious and serene face, and I bring my lips close to the girls’ foreheads at dawn and at sunset; when I see a new flower along the way; when I see a beautiful sight in these rivers and mountains; when, kneeling on the ground, I drink the clear water of a stream; and when I close my eyes, happy with a free day. You accompany and surround me; I feel you, silent and vigilant, around me. I lack only the girls. What do they lack? Can they be saved from their new afflictions? How will they have replaced my little help? My eyes have already written their names on many of Cuba’s clouds and the leaves of its trees.

My happiness as a useful being increases my sorrow that they don’t see me. Will they remember their friend thus, with such loyalty and vehemence?

Ah, María, if you could only see me going along these paths, happy and thinking of you with an affection more gentle than ever, wanting to pick you some of the purple and white star-like flowers that grow here in the mountains, but without any way to send them to you!

I have quite a load, my María, with my rifle over my shoulder; my machete and revolver at my belt; a bag with 100 cartridges slung over one shoulder and maps of Cuba in a large tube dangling from the other; my knapsack containing 50 pounds of medicine, clothes, my hammock, a blanket and books on my back; and your picture on my chest.

I’m running out of paper, and we can’t send large packages. The sunlight is falling straight on the paper. Picture me alive and strong, with more love than ever for the girls who accompanied me in my solitude, for they are medicine for my bitterness. Don’t fear for me. Our difficulties are great, but so are we, and we are bound to overcome them. Carmita will ask Gonzalo to let her read the personal parts of the letter I am sending him. Good Manuel, work. Carmita, write my mother. Little Carmita and María, prepare for school. High over the mountain, when I got here the night before last, I saw a palm tree and a star. How could I help thinking about Carmita and María? And about your mother’s friendship, when I saw the clear sky of a Cuban night? Remember me with fondness.

Your,

Martí