I hear the rumble of thunder,
as if the world were being rolled up,
trees toppled,
the cymbals of brass,
coreopsis daisies.
The air is heavy as silk.
People are running
to a commotion of planes and bands.
Summer is naked and sultry,
shining from pools
like a golden plate,
and assembling,
moving down the boulevard
of my city,
like a dragon with smoky eyes,
gleaming wings.
The ferocity of my country,
its explosion of life,
its drumbeat of hearts
pounding in unison
with the birth of its soul.
A delta of numberless songs,
faces, history,
beloved and reviled,
combatants and lovers.
I come from the north
and have lost count of the parades.
I take them from my box of memories,
and admire the chalices,
ribbons,
kites of each millennial destiny.
And thank Providence
for being here,
among the races and glory
of the world,
who are protected in this galaxy,
to be
what they want to be,
to be
what they are,
and to close their eyes at night,
grateful,
for the birthright of their children’s
freedom.