Young Miss Colombia, Bogota, Colombia

She came from there…

We thought she was Mexican..

She spoke to us

We thought she was mute…

She cried in our arms

We thought she was special…

We talked about her

Thinking she was deaf…

The man who got through to her, turned his back on her

The other man who got through to her hid underneath enriched egos

It was all in the psyche of the great American silencers

Whispering, shushing, shaping our minds into fearful “fruit cakes”

I remember when she hit the mean boy on the head, hoping this would make her fit in

All while the silencers came around and continued to preach fake love

It was on a warm April night, in the middle of the garden

When I first saw her dance the Mamba

Moving her body to the Rhythm, shaking her hips to the Beat

Silencers bewailed at their curriculum of suppression

Dropping their books flat on the ground until the soil eroded its pages of useless passion

I didn’t care where she learned these moves all I cared about was its innate earthliness

Her expression praised abundance; milk and honey straight jfrom her soul

Her facial expression took what it deserved in its path

It was her newfound innocence at the slim age, never seen on this foreign land of hers

The creators and destroyers joined hands in the solitude of amazement

Breathing the scent of each other’s blood

If only my calmness was noticed at that young age

Destiny would have connected us together with a friendship beyond our mind/body experience

Till then I remain intact, waiting for wind to say her name once again

Young Miss Colombia…