Juan Goytisolo Dies on a Ramadan Sunday in Marrakesh

His country was language,
His culture escritura,
In the frontiers
Of concrete imagination mask
He pursued his ‘identity.’
Bourgeoisie family had Cuban African slaves,
He went to the Cuban barrio
Of his invisible relatives,
Communion with them,
A history hidden of unlikely semblance,
Prose them into first novel.
What Virginia Loba said
You need a room and some money
To write
Idle, make mistakes, write re-write
Juan son of the bourgeois,
Rejected his nation
But not the money,
With flūs you can write,
Against falsity
Subjective of Europe, Paris, the Americas,
Final Marrakesh, Maghreb
Marrakesh Old Medina foundation home,
A second Sevilla
Bronze color clay edifices all, 
Hazelnut blanket wraps horizon.
Community formed a family with friends
Their wives and the children
Flūs- money hangs him
Had a chef, chauffeur, handy man,
They all guised his creations,
Dates, almendras, couscous,
Queso Manchego,
Rioja wine
Afternoon in the labyrinth
Of his ancient palace,
Rooms, paintings y books,
Turkish music melodies passages,
Though Segovia, Falla
Granados ‘Spanish Dances,’
Strings weaving with chaabi rhythms
The minaret calls to prayer
Beckons all day long
Before the sleep rooms,
Wall of flower geometric tiles,
Rugs Berber floor or hang,
Tongues: Arabic, French, Spanish,
Recitation of the Koran circles an agnostic,
Happy of the informant
Jinns who in and out dimensions,
Bring him notes,
Blend, he made a truce
With the chaos, the embroidery
Of the tiles, infinite circles octagons,
Squares, pentangos leap streets of energy,
Charge of the Plaza Fna,
Carretas, horses, donkeys, monkeys, snakes
On the floor looking at flute players,
Falcons on shoulders, diviners,
Pack of cards….destiny,
Barkers selling whatever,
Beggars, balloons float, children, women
Musk drifts along Plaza Fna,
Thieves every crevice scheme,
Shadows of swift hands,
The night is money, the tourists are
Opportunity salute.
Juan just goes back to his
His thoughts open to the 
Of his destiny
In this south of his language,
In this Africa of this planet
Fluid he writes invention
The laws of an escribano.
Inventing a self,
Escape from tyrant patriarchal
No nation
But what Dante earth country
Claimed citizen of the world
Like fish in water.
Juan buried next to the tomb
Of Jean Genet,
Old friend and mentor.
In Larache town on the 
Mediterranean coast,
Garden of dancing Hesperides,
Oración of sunset,
Penetrates through marble
To tickle the disappearing sounds
Of Juan’s ears,
Becoming ether.
Larach of Spanish flavor
Arabesque hotel along the beach.
The waves against coastal land
Speech the prose dance
Repeat the observer
Observing waves of everlasting
Pages. P-rosa ever.

From Guayacán (Ishmael Reed Publishing, 2023) by Victor Hernández Cruz. Copyright © 2023 by Victor Hernández Cruz. Used with the permission of the author.