My Spirit Longs

My spirit longs to go where the poco drums play And mother start gyrating and tumble at my feet My spirit long wrapped in pointed turban to sway And feel my heart frolicking to each drumbeat. Then the shepherd looking in a clear glass of water Would tell of sweet times and disaster Where we live on the hilly brow of laughter In strong souls like pigeons in a rafter. You do not understand, you cannot comprehend How bondaged by the barren beauty of her breast The soul comes to it senses and repentance, send Quivers through a man, full of tiredness. But when the shepherd twirls his flag, spin our roles And echo strange tongues without translation One can almost believe Africa where the sweet Nile rolls Is home again, and there was no separation. My spirit long for things, for ancient things where Pocomania is the door, and mother on the floor Have left us in her trance, swimming in waters clear Rising and singing, singing and rising evermore To the celestial strands. Wake me for I dream From under the otaheite tree, this is Jamaica Magnificient her tropic wonders gleam Wher pocomania opens mystic doors to Africa.