“A Calypsonian performer is equivalent to a bullfighter in the ring.”

Marley was rocking on the transport’s stereo
and the beauty was humming the choruses quietly.
I could see where the lights on the planes of her cheek

As for that other thing
which comes when the eyelid is glazed
and the wax gleam

Where are your monuments, your battles, martyrs?
Where is your tribal memory? Sirs,
in that grey vault. The sea