A Migration Of Culture

I first hear of "goods that cross the waters".
Precise descriptions, detailed objects.
I hear of silks of different colors,
Of patterns, of masks, of cast iron pots.
I hear of precious rocks, of tin, and led, and salt,
From gunpowder to flowers,
To exotic fruits of every color.
In the boats come spices, nuts, threads and needles,
Furniture, big animals, small animals,
"Cage birds that sing, birds that talk, birds the color of ash,
The color of sunrise."
Descriptions, details, objects.

With all this comes the rum,
And with the rum comes history,
The history of slaves, of their invention.
A migration of goods that cross the water.
A migration of culture, of new words, of a new language.

"On the boats come the blood that cross the waters"
A mixture of people, of races, of customs.
A melting pot where origins are forgotten.
Mexican parents raising American children.
"When the rain comes again, you will remember,
A certain origin, a canopy of molecules and mist.
You will forget to want yourself a different shade, a different shape."

"On the boats come the blood, the blood, the blood."
The goods are the blood, the words are the blood, the people are the blood.
The blood is culture.
A migration of blood.
A migration of culture.