But since the revolution came to Cuba the beauty of the landscape
is blotted with the grim and pitiable signs of war. The sugar cane
has turned to a dirty brown where the fire has passed through it,
the centrals are black ruins, and the adobe houses and the railroad
stations are roofless, and their broken windows stare pathetically
at you like blind eyes. War cannot alter the sunshine, but the
smoke from the burning huts and the blazing corn fields seems all
the more sad and terrible when it rises into such an atmosphere,
and against so soft and beautiful a sky.
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