Man, I suck me tooth when I hear <br />How dem croptime fiddlers lie, <br />And de wailing, kiss-me-arse flutes <br />That bring water to me eye! <br />Oh, when I t'ink how from young <br />I wasted time at de fetes, <br />I could bawl in a red-eyed rage <br />For desire turned to regret, <br />Not knowing the truth that I sang <br />At parang and la commette. <br />Boy, every damned tune them tune <br />Of love that go last forever <br />Is the wax and the wane of the moon <br />Since Adam catch body-fever. <br /> <br />I old, so the young crop won't <br />Have these claws to reap their waist, <br />But I know 'do more' from 'don't' <br />Since the grave cry out 'Make haste!' <br />This banjo world have one string <br />And all man does dance to that tune: <br />That love is a place in the bush <br />With music grieving from far, <br />As you look past her shoulder and see <br />Like her one tear afterwards <br /> <br />The falling of a fixed star. <br />Yound men does bring love to disgrace <br />With remorseful, regretful words, <br />When flesh upon flesh was the tune <br />Since the first cloud raise up to disclose <br />The breast of the naked moon.<br /><br />Derek Walcott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/parang/
