The time has come for their gabble to rest
And in discreet places descend into mere
Whispers. Within their houses, they will
Bow their heads as sweat trickles near
Their eyes and lips, and the bells ring
Choruses declaring the baptism of their land.
Tonight, they will sleep with dreams adorning
Their idle brows, and, before that, their lovers
Will love more passionately, their kisses
Like pan de sal rolling against their tongues.
Tomorrow, the fishermen will smile as they cast
Their ancient nets towards the sea, and the swish
Of fishes will be like rain falling down their houses
In November. Rain will taste better. And rice
Will not be as plain. Its abstruse grains will be
As delicately sensuous as skin and touch.
Dancing on their albescent sands, their children
Will sing of sunrise looming on the horizon,
Their young eyes gawking towards its gossamer
Glare. In the light of these strange new days,
Even their songs will find rebirth.

Montage Vol. 6 • August 2002


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