Jesús Orta Ruíz, outstanding poet and journalist, was known as the Naborí Indian. His birth took place in the area of ​​Guanabacoa, in Havana on September 30, 1922.

He came to be considered the highest tenth cultist in Cuba in the twentieth century and early stage of the current one.

The Nabori Indian produced several books of poetry. He also collaborated with different publications.

Jesús Orta Ruiz also developed an important investigative and critical work that was reflected in different books, one of which is Criollista and siboneista Poetry, whose selection, prologue and notes were in charge.

In his poetry book entitled Between the clock and the mirrors he resorted to his memory to highlight the symbolism of eternally human themes.

Aspects related to intimacy are present in this book, as well as the childhood and youth of the poet who also meditated on the destiny of man and offered his solidarity with other human beings.

A poem titled Obra is part of his book Entre el reloj y los mirjos.

In that poem he said:

             I have to say I do not know what

   That seems unusual and beautiful,

   I have spent words as a star,

   Rocío, rosicler, smile, pink ...

   And in the poor of verse and prose

   I have not managed to capture her soul

   I've seen it: fugitive butterfly

   Or bird with sparkle wings.

   When I stop, I listen to her and meditate,

   But it gets lost in the written poem.

   I have little time left to speak,

   I despair that I never find

   And I have to die without my hand open

   Gates to the bird that sings to me inside?

Among the most unique works of historical content of Jesus Orta Ruíz is that which he dedicated to reflecting what happened on July 26, 1953 when young revolutionaries led by Fidel Castro carried out the assaults on the Moncada barracks in Santiago de Cuba and the Cárlos Manuel de Céspedes, in Bayamo.

Jesús Orta Ruíz created and published this poem six years later, after the victory of the Revolution in Cuba. He was traveling to Vienna to participate in the seventh World Festival of Youth and Students. His poem impressed the young Cubans who would participate in that event.

In that poem Orta Ruiz, he said:

It was the morning of Santa Ana,

July morning painted pink.
No one sensed that the Sun would rise

through the silent farm of Tizol.
Santiago the Apostle, withered, slept

as knocked down by the hullabaloo
of conga and charanga, madness and alcohol.

It was the morning of Santa Ana ...
Oh, the incubator of the redeemer farm Siboney!

What glorious roosters gave to the aurora

Old and forgotten postures of Hatuey!

Also in the aforementioned poem Jesus Orta Ruiz detailed to evoke the young revolutionaries when they went to the Moncada barracks.

They were determined by the road ...

The flag was opened throughout the landscape.
In the caravan of the immortals

there were two women of stoic purity:
they also came from the heroic farm,

of the incubator Mariana Grajales.

They were previous suns that with their dawn

they ripped the mists of the Moncada barracks

The Homeland in darkness saw its clear paths
in the light it needs urgent shots.
It was the morning of Santa Ana.

The blood shed was not vain blood.

And when referring to the repression unleashed by the soldiers of the dictatorship against the revolutionary combatants who were imprisoned, and how the murdered ones became symbols, Naborí explained:

How blind were the hands of that one

that ripped out the eyes, the dreamy eyes

the eyes of Abel! The eyes of Abel!

that are now stars of a laughing sky

and they illuminate the triumphal step of Fidel!
The martyrs all invade the day,

they gladden cities, they liberate the mountain ...
I already hear the songs of Gómez García

in rapid transit from flower to mockingbird:

 -26 July: wounds where the dawn arose:
high avenging date of offended dates.

Warm blood of lives broken by heroism

when treason and cynicism

they danced on a calvary ...

Oh, dew necessary

to the flower of patriotism!

Jesús Orta Ruíz also summed up the symbolism of the date on which the assault on the Moncada barracks took place, when he stated in the poem:

It is the voice of the entire Cuban earth:

- Glory to the morning of Santa Ana!

Another very important poem by Jesús Orta Ruíz was the triumphant March of the Rebel Army in which he made reference to the entrance into Havana of the Caravan of La Libertad, headed by Fidel, on January 8, 1959.

The full text of the poem is as follows:

January first

Brightly rises the morning

The shadows are gone. Fulgor the star

of the redeemed Cuban flag.

The air is filled with joyful cries.

They cross souls greetings and kisses

and in all the tombs of fallen nobles the flowers burst

and sing the bones.

A jubilant cyclone of flags passes

and of jet and grana bracelets;

moves the enthusiasm balconies and sidewalks;

scream from the frame of each window.

In the light of day the prisons open

And the arms open; the joy opens

Like red rose in hearts

From mothers sick with melancholy.

Young bearded, rebellious diamonds

with olive suits, they come down from the hills,

and, for its sweetness, the triumphant heroes

They look like armed and brave pigeons.

They come with the fragrance of rural life;

they come with the smile of a brother and friend;

they have with the weapons that the blind enemy

removed the ideal;

they come victors of hunger, bullet and cold;

by the alert eye of each hut;

they come with a triumph of the rifle and plow;

they come with the craving of the people turned on;

they come with the air and the dawn,

and simply, as the one who has fulfilled

a simple duty.

Never mind the days of war and sleeplessness;

it does not matter the bed of stone or grass,

without another roof than branches and sky;

it does not matter the insect, it does not matter the thorn,

the thirst consoled with the vine of the mountain,

the rains, the wind, the murderous hand

always threatening on the horizon.

Only Cuba matters, only the dream matters

to change the luck.

Oh, new soldier who does not frown,

nor is he surprised to talk about death!

Children watch him go through hardened

and they think, grown by admiration,

They see a magician king, rejuvenated

and five days in advance.

Camilo Cienfuegos flashes brightly;

their faces shine a hundred fires of glories

Captains pass, tanned peasants

that come from plowing in History.

Marianas pass without another crown

that his sacrifice: Cuban martial,

gardenias that one day became lionesses

to the kiss of Doña Mariana Grajales.

With his invaders, Che Guevara passes,

soul of the Andes that the Turquino climbed.

San Martin burning over Santa Clara,

Maceo del Plata, Argentine Gomez.

Already among the mambises of the wild East,

on a sea of ​​town, a star shines:

we see ... we already see the warm front

the strong arm, the sweet smile of Castro.

They are followed, radiant, Almeida and Raúl,

and applaud the passage of the hero cities burned,

Wounded cities, which are already cured

and they have a serene blue sky.

Fidel! Fidelísimo Martian offspring,

amazement of America, titan of the feat

that from the summits burned the thorns of the plain

and now water orchids, mountain flowers!

And this, that the ice became honey,

it's called ... .Fidel.

And this, that the nettle would become carnation,

it's called ... .Fidel.

And this that my country is not a gloomy barracks,

It's called ... Fidel.

And this, this that the beast was defeated for the good of man,

and this that the shadow became light,

this has a name, it only has one name;

FIDEL CASTRO RUZ.

Jesús Orta Ruiz, despite having lost several decades after the vision, kept creating until almost the moment when his death occurred on December 30, 2005 in Havana.

Precisely three days before his death he wrote a poem inspired by the life and work of the leader of the Cuban Revolution, Fidel Castro.

That poem he called it Time does not devour redeemers.

He manifested in said work:

Living statue of the strongest metal,
not being able to the monsters of gold and silt
kill you with the bullet or the poison,
They want time to condemn you to death.
They count your hours, they are encouraged to see you
white the beard of profile of heleno;
and on the high peak of serene thinking
the bud of your gray hair amuses them.
The towns, however, give you roses,
poems and songs more for things
of birthday dreams, birthday
for the age of heroes and geniuses
it is not measured by days or years
if not for the long centuries and millennia.