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84 The Liberator Speaks Down the avenue of Ficus trees with overlapping braided roots, late-rising blackbirds carry news from eaves of cool blue buildings housing ministries, to the sea side. They fly over bands of school girls in sheer white stockings, who sing as lush memorial wreathes are laid at the stone bust of Benito Juarez. And there to the right of Benito stands Simon Bolivar, The Liberator. Ascetic, watchful from extended vigil, listening for Spain’s imperial knock come to lead him away blindfolded. Ah, the sweet levitation of Spanish. Language held, clipped, then loosed so that those Habaneros who claim its custody, can question the tongue of these other Spaniards of San Juan. Simon Bolivar would sometimes turn to the nubile Jamaican girl, daily bearer of his midday meal wrapped in a clean linen cloth, breast of dove. Turn and bid her 85 listen as he spoke his liberation plans in strong creolized Castilian. The liberator confiding fervently aired out detailed secret schemes to a young still-spirit African girl silent as obsidian. When he stopped she then rose, adjusted her skirts, collected her empty mahogany tray and departed. Plans for the liberation of the Americas bound in her braids. ...

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