Mandinguerio they never see you coming
cloaked in all that folklore and myth.
Staggering forward, rags dragging
through a drift of things left behind –
a rubble of bones, spit, blood,
and griddle to arrive here
at the foot of the Berimbau.
Head bowed to Mestre a
wounded, but proud warrior.
Voices rise in praise,
rhythms switch, and tambourines ring out
announcing your presence
this song – your birthright – Mandinguerio
and the only forewarning
I receive of the
mastery you possess.
A Warrior Princess