I don't love the Che on the bills, nor the one with the banners, the matchboxes and the key rings. I want a Che alive, who has not been able to release the light from within to turn him into a cold statue.

I'm not looking for Guevara in the cold clothes of a speech, nor in history books, nor in stamps. I want the Guerrilla fighter who, locked up in his cathedral of asthma, escaped from the Sierra, under the drizzle, to fly to the possible of the eternal.

It is not a paper Che that I venerate today, nor of marble, iron or bronze. Nor the one that his enemies, fearful, have wanted to bury under the rust of disrepute.

I think in the Ernesto who is the air, the one that is breathed and does not allow itself to be trapped; that supports the hummingbird with the same impetus as a fighter-bomber; that it is a soft breeze or a whirlwind, a fan of palms or hurricanes; that is not seen, but is carried inside, when it moves each leaf of this slight branch that we are of our Tree.

I believe in that which is a mountain stream: transparent, unstoppable, fresh. The one that moves its camp from North to South and from East to West, with a new army of young people, even more rebellious, that plans a strategy from all latitudes.

For this reason, forgive me, forgive us, Guevara, for the times that we have called your name falsely, that we have gone to work with reluctance, that we have allowed the slogan to be that hollow and forced voice that does not open paths; or we have tried to retain your spirit in the light of a photograph or a document.

Today, Che, the Homeland moves its light feet:

Conga that embraces "tu son entero".

Five are the points of the Lone Star

And five the new guerrillas.

Your town is the same, here it is,

Trying to invent once again your crazy dream,

That of turning utopia into downpours...

How many brides are still waiting for you,

How many, open arms!