The music. The clothes. The people,
Many scattered crowds of people.
Almost all of them are walking.
A few special ones are running.
I hear the beating of the drums.
It’s distant, it’s far and muffled,
But I feel it as my heart hums
To the rhythm of the people.
Even watchers are in a dance,
Moving ripple upon ripple.
Huge radios on full volume,
Strong beats vibrating everywhere
Like vacuum going back-and-forth.
If you’re near, you’ll get consumed
By the movements of the loud air
That’s coming out of the radio.
Beating of the drums approaches,
For they are nearer than ever.
Every chosen dancer dances.
They’re counting over and over.
Moves to the left, moves to the right.
Waving banners, colorful, bright.
Wearing feathers and shining light.
To the drums, they dance in the street.
So uniform, they can form waves,
Pyramids, and eagles that greet.
As the radio goes and plays
A song of every dialect,
Celebrating all the old days.
Come on, meet me on the fourth floor,
Next to windows overlooking
The parade on Shoe Avenue.
Let us admire every color,
And maybe go confetti-throwing
In colors of pink, green and blue.
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