Accompong

here the smell of the evening
clings to the Guango bushes
and the Ganja grows tall as cane
the pushers come soon with tourists
like Caribs, they will sit in circles
drink rum and blow holy smoke
against the purple sheet of sky

rastaman . . . cimmaron . . . ragamuffin
your only enemy is the raised fist
that punishes your women
your anger tearing at your soul
and the poverty that hurls its violence
from the summit of this mountain

tell me sons of heroes
how awake were the drummer’s hands
when this desolation visited
your crazy paradise
and why do you dress in ashes
when everyone else is laughing
down there on the beach.