Ink-scented fingerprints: new summer section
Ink-scented literary fingerprints section

There is no doubt that the writer Eduardo Daniel Rosell Herrera (better known as Rosell) has already left a mark among his contemporaries and has earned respect, verse by verse, with his poems. This young author has been recognized with several awards and invitations to events such as El Árbol que Silva y Canta, Reina del Mar Editores, and the Havana International Book Fair, among other national events.

Cultura Escritor Eduardo Rosell 1Las Tunas, Cuba.- According to several established poets, Rosell represents "the future of the décima in Cuba" and that is a big pair of shoes to fill. But if anyone can do it, it is him, who at only 26 years of age shows a profound knowledge of poetry in general. His texts often play with experimentation and analysis. It can be said that his poetry is different, innovative, intelligent, groundbreaking, and never accommodating.

Rosell seeks to make the reader think, analyze, get out of his comfort zone, and broaden the vision he has of poetry or art itself.

The young writer breaks all the structures and boundaries between literary genres. He broadens the scope and use of poetry while maintaining the beauty of the text and the message. He is capable of creating excellent essays on famous paintings and painters; also short stories, testimonies, and all that in verse. He is also an excellent critic of his day-to-day life and his contemporaries.

The poem I am sharing from this author is a clear example that structure has never been a straitjacket in rhymed poetry.

Compilation of the Colima

If only alms were given out of pity,
all beggars would be dead by now.
Friedrich Nietzsche
Enemy eyes should be a trophy as worthy, as Freedom, to mark the cross in defeat.
To mark the cross in another's defeat.
Who knows what duty may make us see them, so that we may understand that our hands bleed?
Or surely, we will find more than one bondage in satisfaction
and perhaps we will not understand more, than what they do not explain to us.
We are only tortured by the idea of enduring without resisting change,
to collimate, to be collimated.
Maybe we are the last soldiers in this war.
Perhaps, repenting is no longer valid, but by systematically repeating the bullshit to ourselves, we come to doubt the
the bullshit, we come to doubt the feats.
We learn to see under the masks, just as we have learned that these masks hide the pain of the pain.
masks hide the pain.
The trickery will remain an occupational hazard, replete with tracer words (such brutal words),
(words so brutal)
sarcastic promoters of the miserable exercise of conformity.
From the outset, we monitor knowledge, so fatally, that,
to the detriment of our fears,
the last cross of the collimator sprouts, cruel and certain,
capable of overcoming the purulent sense of pleasure.
To fix our eyes on desolation is necessary, to feel in each comment,
how many pains every hidden anger holds.
In the meantime, we breathe the predisposition of the collimated, then we become a tornado of uncertainty.
we become a tornado of uncertainties.
Norms are so rickety, that they stick their noses into the politics of consumption.
But everything limited becomes necessary when every scar weighs on our shoulders.
every scar.
But we never root out the root of the problem, kill or be the prey.
We put down or lose our heads to survive.
No matter for what reason as a mere bystander with blood on our hands.
Witnesses who see their enemies' eyes as dead medals...
The Author.