Give voice to praise the gods of music;
with trumpet, lyre, lute, and flute.
Sound the drums and beat the cymbals;
pluck the harp and bow the fiddles.
Let us dance with fierce abandon
and fill the streets with happy songs.
Listen to the bagpipe’s wails
as the oboe cries along.
Let our voices rise in chorus
to the common human soul.
One symphony of love arises;
a common language is our goal.
                        

As dusk and the crowd settle, 
the mariachis perform:
three guitars, two trumpets, 
two violins, one snare, 
and a singer who—
dressed in flowing red—
shakes maracas and mourns 
the loss of her true love. 

Before el toro is butchered 
for delectation and dancers 
stomp the fiesta flamenco 
and quick-stepped paso doble; 
boots chastising dust.

From the sol she watched
her sweat-clad beloved 
rake and shovel;
no cape, sword; 
roar of applause, 
bellowed olé. 

Bravely the mariachis play. 
Emotion quavers her song.
Tears course from ebony eyes. 
Recollect the klezmer of youth,
wails of forbearers,
train wheels’ thump and squeak:
Only work will set you free.  

There was no theater to pogroms,
no resplendent crowd’s 
ovation, vicarious bravery,
silver glittered charro clothes;
only the keened sound of loss—
the lonely entreaty of clarinet—
the scent of blood in the torrid afternoon.