She smiled to see the sail boat go
In the fresh blue morning burned by the Caribbean sun
While lingering smoke from ashen torches
Plume like escaping dreams.
She can hear still so early in the day
The crowds of hidden people past the trees
That sway slowly in the cool breeze.
They chant prices, offer salvation,
Sing Greek songs from a thousand years gone.
She can feel the water in the air,
The echoing dew from the final moments of night.
Its morning, like any other.
Mambo Spain, Cuba
Not the same
Simple rhythms and pulsating beats
Slap bass rumble knife
Rocket voodoo money woes
Street sand, dirt, drink – drink
Cocktails, night time, Reagan
Economics: Drugs, no
Poly sounds surround screeching parrots
Talking palm tree beach smoking
Huts tropical sea breeze
Louisiana stretch midnight party
Mardi gras poverty wooden floors
Happy life, swaying branches
Middle suburbs in spring
True love, Neruda Lorca
Let the Latin in.
There is a golden city at rest on the shore,
Its nature, its ballrooms of stars,
The cascading waterfall of riches in the soul.
You stand on the black sand
Reaching out to sea
As if to grasp my own hand.
But we both see the first frail branch of autumn
Spread across the horizon that severs us,
And we are sure that we are together –
We feel the same winds.