Flowers of Exile or Flores del Exilio, Jose Marti

For my homeland
For a good woman
For my friends


These I offer here are not finished works
They are--oh my! notes of the images
I took while they flew so they would not flee
from the rousing crowd of the streets, between
the thunderous thrashing of the railway
the urgent deadlines of a business desk--
the loving refuge found in a postscript.
I don't really know why I'm publishing
them: I have a silly fear that makes me
want to publish now. I have a disdain
for everything that's mine: but these verses,
rebellious, tormented, somber and fighting,
I imitate them and I love them all.

There are other things I could be doing:
perhaps I don't do them, or intend to,
but steal from sleep, my only hours,
because I believe expression to be
the other half of action, as there's much
to do, I consider mere expression
alone an ignoble occupation.