Sleek girls danced
In the heat of the samba,
Their limbs twisting
Like wisps of smoke
To the whistles
That mimic the African sounds of the Amazon
But I could not see them.
Overpriced beer not fit for the favelas
Swilled as golden brown as their arms.
Caiparinhas with hardly a suggestion of cachaca
Cloudy like their almond faces.
Kisses that smelt of strawberries
But I could not taste them.
For I tread a path that is not there
And speak words that you wish not to hear
And raise from the dead
Even by the dead gods that begat them