An hour after the party ended
A lone voice was still singing in Spanish,
Weaving between the cabanas like a drunken ghost
Or the echo of a singer long asleep.
The morning was full of birdsong
In their universal nonsense language,
But I like to think that Spanish voice is out there still –
Blundering into the jungle, felling trees,
Eternally extending the festive night
For the benefit of no one but itself.
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