Castro Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Castro and not Calixto,
That speaks of the name,
That is vile and disputed,
With chains for hands, disturbed young flail

Castro of candor
With a vagrant soul,
That catalyzes what the world apprehends
The futility, the enmity

From Eurasia to Antarctica,
Castro bellows, like the verdure
That skewers the zeppelin,
Forked in the sky, the grumbling sky

And with stones for feet,
The fortress of Castro, sits idly
Like an abandoned lighthouse,
That has lost its beam

What a shame, Castro travels like light,
With such concoction, an insufferable blight
Hold Castro like a flame,
And you are set to cast upon stones, stones to ashes

And the allegory thwarts the requiem
Of Castro’s tombstone prancing,
In the moonlight loathing,
What the feverish corona cannot jeer about

And Castro talks, like crucified mouths,
And tonges scorned at hollow pits,
Ravished souls, decrepit and sundered,
Castro, where are you in the muted forests?

Castro you are in delirium,
The deluge of your own severed skin,
Lies in the hammock, of the once delighted kin
Now, in the rubble, with dimly lit incandescent

The upheaval that bolsters,
The fortress of Castro with the savage monsters;
Then a knight with illustrious moniker
Breaches within contact, disengage or perish

Castro,
Who are you?
And what ilk or evil does your virility speak of?
Could it be, that you are a mirror?