Because people are very interested in my poetry, in what I say.

Hear the humble yet powerful words of Compay Segundo, the Cuban troubadour whose music and verse touched the soul of the world: “Because people are very interested in my poetry, in what I say.” At first glance, these words may seem simple, even modest. Yet within them lies a deep truth about the nature of art and the bond between the artist and the people. Segundo reminds us that art is not only about personal expression; it is about the communion between a voice and the ears that receive it, between a heart that sings and the hearts that are moved by the song.

The meaning here is profound: the true measure of poetry is not only in its beauty, but in its ability to awaken interest, to stir curiosity, to resonate with the struggles and dreams of others. Segundo did not write or sing in isolation. He spoke of life, of love, of joy, of sorrow—and because his words carried authenticity, people listened. They were interested not only in his craft, but in his vision of the world. What he said mattered because it was true to human experience, and truth, when spoken in rhythm and music, cannot be ignored.

History offers many parallels. Consider the poets of ancient Greece, like Hesiod, who sang not of gods alone but of farmers, toil, and daily labor. People cared for his poetry because it spoke to their lives. Or think of Pablo Neruda in Chile, who declared that poetry belonged not only to the elite but to the miners, the fishermen, the ordinary people of his land. Crowds gathered not merely to admire his skill, but to hear what he said, for he gave voice to their own unspoken thoughts.

So too with Segundo. Rising from the vibrant soil of Cuban music, he fused poetry with melody, his words carrying the rhythm of his homeland. In the streets, in the cafés, in the hearts of those who listened, his art mattered because it was rooted in truth. His statement is not arrogance, but testimony: he knew that people sought his songs not for ornament, but for the wisdom and vitality they carried. And this is the calling of every true artist—to speak in such a way that others lean in, hungry to hear.

This insight is heroic, for it reveals the sacred responsibility of the poet and musician. To speak is to carry power. Words can uplift or wound, inspire or deceive. When people are “very interested” in what one has to say, the burden grows heavier, for each word becomes seed in the soil of another’s soul. Segundo reminds us that with this attention comes responsibility: the poet must honor the trust placed in his voice, must speak not with vanity but with truth.

The lesson is eternal: if you wish your words to matter, let them be born from sincerity. People care not for empty ornament or false grandeur, but for the voice that speaks with honesty, rooted in lived experience. Segundo’s power came not only from his melodies, but from his authenticity. This is the way of all true poets and leaders: they do not speak to impress, but to connect, and thus they draw interest naturally, like fire drawing warmth-seekers in the night.

Practical steps follow. When you speak or write, ask yourself: Am I saying what is true to me? Am I saying what matters to others? Seek not to impress with cleverness alone, but to touch with honesty. Listen to the voices of your community, and let your words respond to their hunger. Cultivate authenticity, for this is the soil from which meaningful art grows. And when people show interest in what you say, receive it as sacred trust, and use your voice for good.

Thus the words of Compay Segundo endure: “Because people are very interested in my poetry, in what I say.” Let us hear in them not vanity but calling. Let us remember that the world is always listening, waiting for words of truth, for songs that carry life. And let us strive to speak in such a way that when others listen, they find not emptiness, but the echo of their own humanity, spoken back to them in verse and in music.