En la Calle San Sebastián

Viejo San Juan, Puerto Rico, 1998 Here in a bar on the street of the saint en la calle San Sebastián, a dancer in white with a red red scarf en la calle San Sebastián, calls to the gods who were freed by slaves en la calle San Sebastián, and his bronze face is a lantern of sweat en la calle San Sebastián, and hands smack congas like flies in the field en la calle San Sebastián, and remember the beat of packing crates en la calle San Sebastián, from the days when overseers banished the drum en la calle San Sebastián, and trumpets screech like parrots of gold en la calle San Sebastián, trumpets that herald the end of the war en la calle San Sebastián, as soldiers toss rifles on cobblestone en la calle San Sebastián, and the saint himself snaps an arrow in half en la calle San Sebastián, then lost grandfathers and fathers appear en la calle San Sebastián, fingers tugging my steel-wool beard en la calle San Sebastián, whispering your beard is gray en la calle San Sebastián, spilling their rum across the table en la calle San Sebastián, till cousins lead them away to bed en la calle San Sebastián, and the dancer in white with a face of bronze en la calle San Sebastián, shakes rain from his hair like the god of storms en la calle San Sebastián, and sings for the blood that drums in the chest en la calle San Sebastián, and praises the blood that beats in the hands en la calle San Sebastián, en la calle San Sebastián.