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Maracas Valley MARACAS VALLEY over the saddle,it's cool and dark thick with the scent of wet humid,lurid, fertile,still she pulses promise and threat smell the rain coming like rot,like birth dripping,pouring entering the earth cacao trees sleep in the afternoon beneath them black men toil slowly on suns' return, the valley steams vapid cauldron of guilty dreams air,without breath still,beyond fear life ,stumbles on death and waits with him,untill he finds the valleys' moist brown breast she offers herself,to be fed upon like slaves and mothers,and all lovers of man |
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