Hundred sixty seven years ago José Martí is among us, accelerating the dawns in those difficult days in that the sun seems not to want to leave; preaching springs when the blizzard threatens to dry the orchard; basting wills every time some not well born ones has sought to undo the knots that the Homeland has fomented among its children.
We have the Apostle, because their hundred sixty seven years of existing are the supreme justification of all that we make to deserve the sun, to challenge the blizzard and to face the infamy. We have it near, partner, friend; effective in the star and in the verse, generous in their teaching’s offering, exact in the exercise of their necessary example.
Because Martí belongs to the boy that the hope of the world is known; to the old man that has never been old to love and to be loved; to the sincere man that grows and he lived in loyal communion with the palm; to the learned woman and virtuoso that it sweetens and he maked invincible each work.
Hundred sixty seven years ago José Martí belongs to those who affiliate in the decree of those that love and they are founded, of the grateful ones who they will never miss the value to look of in front of the sun without complaining too much of its stains: those men and women of daily delivery that seize the martian doctrine like tool of their acts to assure day by day reborning of the purest man in the race. Those men and law women for who every day is the Teacher’s inspiring birthday.