letter from a contract worker
By Antonio Jacinto
I wanted to write you a letter
my love
a letter to tell you
of this longing to see you
and this fear of losing you
of this thing which deeper than I want, I feel
a nameless pain which persues me
a sorrow wrapped around my life.
I wanted to write a letter
my love
a letter of intimate secrets
a letter of memories of you
of you
your lips as red as the tacula fruit
your hair as black as the dark diloa fish
your eyes gentle as the macongue
your breasts hard as the maboque fruit
your light walk
your caresses
better than any I can find down here.
Alabama
Cuba
Brazil
Voices from the Brazilian sugar plants
from the tonga drums, from the
pampas, from factories,
Voices from Harlem District South,
voices from slum locations
Voices wailing blues going up the
Mississipi, echoing from the rail road wagons.
Voices weeping with Carrother's voice
"Lord God will have we done.?"
Voice of all voices in the proud voice
of Langston
in the beautiful voice of Guillen...*
Through your back
Gleaming backs beneath the world's strongest
suns
Gleaming backs making fertile with their blood
working soft with their sweat
the worlds richest soils
Gleaming (Ai the colour of those backs...)
Gleaming backs twisted at the torso
hanging from the gallows, struck down by the Lynch
Gleamining backs (ah, how they gleam, those backs)
Breath to caught breath
would leave to you
pure and hot.
the burning
the sorrowful words of the letter
I wanted to write to you
I wanted to write you a letter
But, my love, I don't know why it is,
why, why, why it is, my love
but you can't read
and I - oh the hopelessness- I can't write.
By Antonio Jacinto
By Antonio Jacinto
I wanted to write you a letter
my love
a letter to tell you
of this longing to see you
and this fear of losing you
of this thing which deeper than I want, I feel
a nameless pain which persues me
a sorrow wrapped around my life.
I wanted to write a letter
my love
a letter of intimate secrets
a letter of memories of you
of you
your lips as red as the tacula fruit
your hair as black as the dark diloa fish
your eyes gentle as the macongue
your breasts hard as the maboque fruit
your light walk
your caresses
better than any I can find down here.
Alabama
Cuba
Brazil
Voices from the Brazilian sugar plants
from the tonga drums, from the
pampas, from factories,
Voices from Harlem District South,
voices from slum locations
Voices wailing blues going up the
Mississipi, echoing from the rail road wagons.
Voices weeping with Carrother's voice
"Lord God will have we done.?"
Voice of all voices in the proud voice
of Langston
in the beautiful voice of Guillen...*
Through your back
Gleaming backs beneath the world's strongest
suns
Gleaming backs making fertile with their blood
working soft with their sweat
the worlds richest soils
Gleaming (Ai the colour of those backs...)
Gleaming backs twisted at the torso
hanging from the gallows, struck down by the Lynch
Gleamining backs (ah, how they gleam, those backs)
Breath to caught breath
would leave to you
pure and hot.
the burning
the sorrowful words of the letter
I wanted to write to you
I wanted to write you a letter
But, my love, I don't know why it is,
why, why, why it is, my love
but you can't read
and I - oh the hopelessness- I can't write.
By Antonio Jacinto
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