UP ON THE TREE-HOUSE
Beneath the starry night, resting the backbones tired
Domingos sits with head low on a pillow
And plays the guitar fluently.
Latin melodies creep out of the small tree-house.
And creep into all the little holes by the breeze.
He murmurs tunefully,
That always there should be someone higher than us
That there must always be an ideal for all to know.
That should war ever kill people, they have died with pride.
These days,
When the sun seems to be too yellow to be real
And then the rain doesn't seem to be as pleasantly lavender as before,
Domingos asks his spirit to be released from its rabbit hutch.
Help me, the one that I don't know,
The one that I have never seen or spoken to
At this crucial time
Domingos asks unconditionally for guidance.
He gets the true guidance
But he gets it from nobody in particular.
He gets it.
Such is the power of spirit.
October 1999,
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