DRUMS

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.

Proudly, said loudly, delights there the spirit,

of those who do drumming

and of those who hear it.