109 - The music plays and we forget our cares

The music plays and we forget our cares.
The womb of tune and rhythm absorbs us
Like ancient weavers lost in making wares
For their bazaars, near Tigris and Oxus.
The Spanish guitar speaks of blood and love,
As flighty fingers clack and heels click time.
The famished beggar smiles at God above,
And ravaged hands clap to rhythm and rhyme.
Forgotten outcasts set up street parties
In deepest Bronx, and rap Christmas wish lists,
While Hottentots and Hutu detainees
Bang drums and chant, eternal optimists.
Let’s all make music - it’s free therapy,
Draining us, cleansing us of all worry.
Fri 22 Dec 2006