Heavy are the steps of the old woman as she shuffles her worn slippers along,
We fear that her pension of 1543 pesos isn't even enough for a bottle of oil.
in which the hope of a full meal is baked.

Heavy are the hands of the single mother
leaving the empty chemist
and looks at her child with a fever,
without the money for the syrup
which on the other corner costs five thousand pesos —
the corner of whispers,
the only place medicine can still be obtained.

There, in that same street
where chicken for six thousand pesos is an unreachable luxury,
I felt something that broke my heart
and sewed it back together at the same time.

I saw them smile.

It wasn't an easy laugh,
but a tired, steadfast pull to the mouth.
A heavy smile.

Heavy with the shots that aren't there,
the investigations that are not coming,
The years that take their toll without means.

But above all heavy with the unbreakable decision
not to give up.

Wanted in Pueblo Nuevo,
When the body says, “I can’t anymore”,
answers the soul of the Cuban
through gritted teeth
and a glance at the neighbour who says:

“We're in the same boat, but we're here.”

And that — that is a medicine
that the black market will never be able to sell...

Daylen Alberteris, Holguín, Cuba