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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