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WEST INDIES LTD. GUILLEN there rises a singing voice, there surges a singing voice, there flows a raging voice of old and of today; a barbarous, modern voice explodes: Let heads be cut like cane stalks! Cut, cut, cut! Let heads burn with the cane stalks, and let the smoke rise to the clouds! When will it be, when will it be? My blade is ready with its edge! Cut, cut, cut! My hand is ready with the blade! Cut, cut, cut! The overseer stands with me! Cut, cut, cut! Let heads be cut like cane stalks! Let heads burn with the cane stalks, And let the smoke rise to the clouds! Oh, when will it be? This elastic song of afternoon, born of harvest and pain, sends a trembling, fiery tune to the concave ceiling of day. Hunger crawls by doorways filled with yellow faces, meagre forms; sitting in the chairs of city parks and, thriving at the height of day or in the depths of night, it seeks the problematic alcohol which blurs and blinds but is not sold in stores of any kind. Hunger in the Indies of the West; a pain naïve Antillians know the best