He was young,
in his hands lay the future
of a new land.
He was poor,
he knew the sweat that is reaped
with a weary back and empty pockets.
He was a patriot;
Cuba, the Revolution, were for him
a reality.
He died torn apart by Yankee shrapnel
At dawn on April 15.
His name was Eduardo García.
He was a militiaman.
