When we dance
We are in-suppressible. Boisterous yet harmonious.
We hear the music and we move.
Boogie, Wop, Charleston, and Foxtrot,
Careening, Jitter-bug-ing, Leanin’ down the block
The music is in the road, in the sky and in the sea.
Lagoa has a soft hymn. The kind you have to hear to believe.
A melody in the way the sun sets behind the water and the trees.
The Blue Mountains that shield Floripa from the sea.
It is a symphony of beauty.
We can tell you this, all of us. All nineteen.
The music. It’s in the sugar cane machine on the side of the street, in the humming of a Fellow as they wait for others to eat, at the bus stop while the man taps his feet.
The sounds are not always concordant.
In fact they are usually quite cacophonous.
A mixture of cars honking, dogs wailing, people shouting.
The music is almost deafening but it can be quiet when you want it to be.
Sometimes it can become a reflection of what you feel and what you see.
A steady heart beat. beating steady beating steady beating steady.
But even with a single, simple cadence,
We dance proudly. We dance fearlessly. We dance with our laughs, with our tears, with our “lingo”
We may not understand your language but we understand your rhythm.
A shared love for tunes and jingles. This is something we all have within.
Waltz, Congo, Shimmy, and Rhumba
Frolic-ing, Souljaboy-ing, Samba-ing through the night.
We danced from SFO to GRU from Home to Home and Bus to Bus.
We danced our dance together and alone.
A secret dance to a secret beat.
The Beat of Brasil.