We have lost all sensitivity and replaced it with sensuality.
Somewhere among the beat of the drums, the jamaican rum and the scent of ganja, the people have become numb to the brutality going on.
It becomes as regular as an dancehall song:”Pon the river, Pon the bank,”
I saw ten homeless man scrapping the depleted ground as if they were looking for treasures our ancestors put down.
“Sweet jah, sweet jah” is the rasta man song, “we sacrifice this cow to you,” but now we must sacrifice the meat of the heart.
All the while, gun a fire, the youth them growing weary from teary eyes that speak of lost hope.-(music can kill or revitalize the soul).
Jamaica-out of many one people-one people can bring many out.
Out of the slumber, out of poverty, out of the violent state brought about by the open trade of AKs.
My youth ah cry for the adults to behave.
Set the stage, we are all actors no longer submitted to the role of slaves.
Copyrighted Marisa Levy 2005