Beyond the numbers, it will be better to remember him in his perennial "Camagüeyanity", in those returns that he always did to the city of his origin and to his dawns, in his gaits twisted by the web of alleys.

Better to remember Guillén as the son of a father died by the loyalty to his principles, to the small apprentice of typesetter in the brief years of his childhood, to the suspicious weaver of commercial announcements of the ¨Pistos Manchegos¨ of El Camagüeyano newspaper, to that of those fragments of his life and work.

Many anecdotes I have listened about him, but I always remember two: that of the jar full of cold water that certain neighbor of this city through him well late at night, while he was teaching with his voice to a friend the architectural marvels of his Camagüey with such a determination that the lady of the window wraped up taking them drunkards. And another one, of how a voice dictated him "Negro bembón".

According to the confession of the proper poet, seeing these poems published produced in him a fear, a fear of being signing with his signature something foreign, something that had come to him like a resonance of an inexplicable way. One day he would tell it in a lecture in the feminine society Lyceum.

Perhaps Nicolás was above all a good listener of the ancestral voices, a precise translator of the drowned pride of our race. And now in his physical absence, maybe he keeps on returning to us through his poems like something that sounds familiar, something of the whole life, something relative to the heat of our veins. As the enigmatic routes of his own inspiration.

Translated by BA in English Language, Manuel Barrera Téllez

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