CHAPTER 20. CYCLIC HYMN.

January 20, 1989.

The half-naked African youth of sixteen was extraordinarily agitated today—it was on this very day that he turned sixteen. It must be noted that he was agitated by no means because he had experienced the most indescribable, and therefore exceptional, kind of happiness on this day, and by no means because the realization that he had grown up, had substantially grown up, came to him precisely on this day, but because it was on this very day that he first managed to hear a name previously unknown to his ear—the name of Cabral: one of his few friends wished him on that day to become like this Cabral once was.

"Cabral! How astonishing! Who is this? What kind of man is he, if my friends wish me to be like him? Like him… but like him in what way? For it is impossible to wholly resemble a specific person—one person can resemble another only in certain qualities!" the sixteen-year-old youth mused innocently, being in complete solitude. "From all appearances, he was, indeed, great… if they remember him in such a positive light… if they remember him now that he is dead! This must be looked into! If he was truly great, a great benefactor, then I, like him, will also accomplish something great—I will do so in his honor and in his name! But if he was a great criminal, a great villain, then I will tirelessly curse the very hour when I first managed to hear his name!"

With considerable inspiration, the inspiration of labor, having overcome the present day, the said sixteen-year-old youth wearily settled within the confines of his humble bed. In his mind, the following words sounded continuously, cyclically, like some ancient hymn—words that were born of the youth's mind after he had managed to learn from the lips of those around him precisely who the previously so mysterious Cabral was to his being:

He was born in the land of Bafatá,
The Tulip of Guinea and Cape,
He had a well-known brother,
But is that how we know his shape?
A villain immortal or a savior?
Such a question sparks sometimes
Among the people dwelling here,
And those who witnessed on the climbs,
His grand contempt…
For what or whom?
For people who brought a way to think?
Or those who called to war the great
And fearsome Lusitanian race?
He scorned the spirit of submission!
He boiled in Funaná’s tempo's pace,
His fire wouldn't soon submission take!
He saw it all, but was he seen?
That was the reason for his fall:
Loved by all, and by all hated,
He longed for nothing and for all.
They deemed him helpless,
But in fact he was armed:
With a mind’s flight, so colorful,
And with his spirit’s power. He was charmed,
Convinced in the goal he undertook—
He knew precisely where he went,
From where he’d started with a look:
His people wanted freedom sent!
Completely knowing all the reasons,
The motives of this very path,
He sank deep into the abyss’ seasons,
But still continued his own march…
To walk to where all power reigns,
To crush this power with a blow:
Did he not know these are but graves?
He knew it well, but still he’d go,
He carried on to build the palace
Of freedom: he knew stratagem’s force—
With hope that filled the souls of brothers,
He went with zeal along the course,
Promising tirelessly to all
To bring back what was ruined by fathers.
Did he bring back? You judge with reason,
But with consideration of the starts
Of freedom’s creator’s theory…
And truly, was he not so bold,
Who bravely bore all adversity,
Who wept where laughter brightly told?
He was despondent in his great days,
And in days of sorrow, he was great!
What is his true appearance now?
It all depends on books and fate,
The books that speak to all of him:
In some, he's a true villain;
In others, a fighter for the will
Of an innumerable family of men…
His fate is but a simboa song:
But coladeira or a morn?
His fate is but an outcast's lot:
But for which of the uniforms?
The higher that the branches rise,
The farther they stretch from their roots—
Did you not make a bacchanal's cries
For fame you sought as sweet of fruits?
A supposition quite absurd!
To give your life for fame!
Whatever was your soul’s desire—
No one wishes for a death to claim!
For death to human nature,
Is so repugnant, what to say—
Can half a century of fame
Mend half a century of life’s stay?
Cabral is slain! But not defeated!
His spirit lives, though he is dead!
His example—Cape Verde’s hope!
His spirit makes Guinea proud!
He spawned so many like him,
But now there are none like him here!
He wrote a road with blood and hymn…
To place his people on the throne!
He was born in the land of Bafatá,
The Tulip of Guinea and Cape,
He had a well-known brother,
But is that how we know his shape?