Favela

The favela sings to me,
pleads with me,
begs me to return.

Steep, narrow alleys
facing dark ocean
reflecting silvery moon.

A tamborim, a surdo,
a voice touching ember,
touching longing
and a world once
much more than imminent.

Dreams and cashasa,
cheap cocaine and weed,
a drug lord knocking at the door
before dawn makes it legal.

Chico Buarque ruptures
the silence at dawn,
long before military police
storms slanting village,
lookouts on rooftops whistles.

Three young men lay dead
in the must come sun,
on the narrow alleys
that falls with bars
and people waking up.

She broke my foot.
It all happened after three days
of relentless fighting.
I saw a pretty girl,
passing on the sidewalk.

Jumping on one foot
I made it to a street
where the school bus
stopped every morning.




Poetry by Bob
Read 469 times
Written on 2011-04-24 at 01:37

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