Los Guitarristas

In the hot summer air I dream of you;
at night my mind wanders to your southern latitudes;
for I have seen you favor the stars over men
and how the moon made you swoon;
but when the black birds rose over the ocean waters
and sang their ballads of Latin sorrow
how you felt the need to kick up dirt
and dance in the streets
and when the poor Mexican boys
plucked their chords of love
how you danced for them and came alive
yours being the body of sonatas and madrigals
and when they sang their ballads of Christ
and of how he was strung up on his cross
dying and weeping under a crown of thorns
how I imagined you danced and wept in the summer rain
yours being a heart forever in tune with heavenly choirs

– A. Ramirez

You can get my book of poetry here.


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