Poem: Made of Rhythm

By: Linda Villamarín

We're made of music. 

We are sounds, we are, only if we have rhythm, 

we are only if we beat, if we sound, if we dance. 

Bim! 

The sound of footsteps on dry leaves, 

the arms that wiggle the rice dry, 

the feet that go into the water by changing their compass. 

One, two, three. 

The sharp blow of the axe that cuts the trunk, 

hot iron that is formed with blows, 

the rough sandpaper on the wood. 

Four, five, six. 

Claps hitting each other, 

the voices of the women that are stretched out into a song, 

the sound of the river moving. 

Seven, eight, nine. 

The tree falls, the birds sing loudly. 

Silence. 

Bam! 

All the sounds are mixed, they dance, the music is created, 

the hands hitting faster and faster on the skin covering the drum, 

the beats obey it and move to its beat, 

the body feels it, it doesn't control itself, it moves, it lets itself be carried away by that rhythm that elevates it quickly. 

The rhythm doesn't ask, it invades. 

We can hear it with our whole body, 

the legs, the arms, the shoulders feel the call and move. 

It's impossible to be still, 

they pass through the side of the rhythm maker and are also infected 

there are no rules, the soul comes out of the body and lets itself be seen dancing. 

We're on rhythm now. 

Bum! 

Faster, faster, faster. 

Always forward, like you're about to hunt. 

The arms go faster, higher, carry the rest of the body up to the sky, 

lift it up, jump high, higher. Higher! 

They fall, the earth rises and dances too. 

The dust now dances with the legs of one who is already a slave to the rhythm. 

The body trembles when the compass speeds up, gets carried away. 

The drums command the body, it can't escape. 

The rhythm is the one that commands, 

the blow is stronger, more intense, 

singing, shouting, laughing, clapping, shaking breath, falling, stepping. 

There is no silence. 

Body, sound, rhythm, are one and the same when we dance. 

There is no greater force that moves beings than music that is made from within, from themselves. 

We are instinct. 

No one is silent when they are in the delightful transept that the music transmits. 

Bim! Bam! Bum!