a shaman of guatemala

I fear the shamans, great or small, I saw one, with long black hair, In a cemetery of the green Guatemala, He danced among the colored tombs, it was inhabited by the spirits of the dead, Better to keep away from this king, I have hidden behind graves, He spoke to the spirits, to the blue ghosts He agitated a sort of burning ossuary, He screamed and danced, agitated like a nightmare, I was for a moment frightened and petrified, seized I preferred to run away without taking a picture. The moon began to whiten on the grey pines.