Comandante

I saw you on TV tonight. I recorded the show for my mom, who's hero you were during her younger days. Maybe I inherited her love for you and your ideals, the true ones, not the ones warped by media and imperialism, or by your own ways of revolution through arms. But yes, I'm in love with your dream. And I show it wrong I know, with your face printed on a t-shirt I once had and lately with you looking out on the world from the surface of the red-painted china of my teacup. I follow the dream through capitalist means of consumption. Yet I cannot help wanting to buy that teacup, and smile when I hold it and I remember. You make me believe, even when faced by nightmares, it is good to dream.

And I couldn't help feeling my heart leap when the TV showed your laughing face just an hour ago, or feel my entire being on edge when staring into those intense eyes of yours on screen. You were a handsome man. I found pictures of you on the net, and just looking at them makes me happy.
Even when the documentary showed your corpse, you seemed somewhat alive. They can't kill you, you're eternal.

Comandante Ernesto Rafael Guevara de la Serna.
El Che.