LAST CYCLE © 2008

It’s hot these days of intense rain,

The people move in an unceasing rhythm,

Side by side, minibus drivers in belief,

Earning Kwanzas, in a hurry back and forth.

The beloved conductor, a voice echoing far,

"Maianga, Maianga!", with affection in tone,

"Come on, sister, get on, dear father, answer,"

No anger, but with tenderness, in one sound.

At the stop, the routine that doesn’t change,

One gets off, another gets on, in a spinning cycle,

"Let’s charge, ahead with the sharp change,"

While the music makes the heart beat.

Kizomba and kuduro, in exploding beats,

The bass in the ears, an endless rhythm,

"Turn down the sound, I’m on the phone, insisting,"

But the world goes on, from corner to corner, this way.

"Call me, I don’t have balance," the repeated phrase,

Echo of an announcement, in everyone’s mouth,

It’s the heat of life, in a heartfelt offer,

The voice of the people, always firm, always present.

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