In Brazilian Portuguese the samba

is the sonnet, lovely lazy lively

lilt slipping through shoulders, hips, lips, toes, hands

to be breath and so smooth how time flowers


Before there were any words, Jobim made

sun, sand, sea, saudade, me, and the girl

who was completely sound without need of  flesh,

she of the slightest  stirrings  of our air


No knowing now, ever,  how samba means

outside itself, except it lilts us  let

go grip of grasping selves, dance with shadows

sculpted from blocking light of this, this… life


ah, sway, syncopated, counting deeper

sweeter than any beat,  more…less regular

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