The Left are the last colored beads -gaudy, shining, poisonous- that Europe sold to the Natives. It’s the triumph of the post-colonial Colonialism.

The Left is now a faded poster in the room of a bourgeois teenager, surviving deep into him as he grows old.

But Fidel is not the face in that poster, in that t-shirt. It’s Che Guevara’s, as he had the revolutionary good taste of dying young.

The only way of being forever young is dying young, if possible shot in the battle.

The Left is riot, all its symbols are those of riot, the riot is the moment it lives for. The past is always dark and the future is hazy.

That’s why Fidel is not in the t-shirts, because he outlived his own legend.

Nobody wants to think about the gloomy and drooling hangover following the night of merry bonfires, comrades, songs and victory’s powder smell.

But the young man grows old and flames become cold ashes and the overwrought nerves break in servile apathy.