IslandsThis is the low housein which my race has grown. Twisting and lifting, the road takes off beyond. Will it reach the weary waters beneath the distant mango trees? Smells of burnt earth and salt cod Wafting under the muzzle of thirst. A smile splitting the ripe coco-plum of an aged face. The vague prayer of smoke-trails. Lament of a prolonged neighing that scales the sides of the ravines. Voices of rum with their breath warming our ears. Clatter of dominoes rifling the birds' repose. Calypso rhythyms in the warm belly of our banjos. Laughter of desire in the deep insides of the night. Mouths starved of bread swilling the cheap alcohol of words. The island pushing towards morning its weight of humanity. Guy Tirolien (Guadeloupe) |
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