In the land, once Goetemala,
rain comes courting after nap
and the Rio Pensativo runs the streets.
Thus, in morning’s sun-shine shower,
every hour, every hour, comes there drums
and marching drummers to their beats.
Flowers start exploding wildly. Every soul,
corroding mildly, nourishes conceits.
From the primal core comes beating,
primate strength and skill repeating
warning to the other shore.
Cadence called for self-parading,
brazen brashness masquerading
solemn, slow and sure, a civic chore.
of those who do drumming
and of those who hear it.