A fizzy smell of Tanduay has been always the night of a negrito,
pure spirit which curls in his short body like his curly hair,
the funny ghost of a forefhater is laughing under the lumboy tree
near the ricefield which absorbed his sweat and blood,
with no sunscreen as bathers still use today on nearby white sand beaches

The night of a negrito has been always a dead end history,
a non-linear rosary of emigration from a place to another,
men and women never been boys and girls but feet and shoulders:
on a sacada´s morning, hot and then wet, they were gone,
with no legacy to leave or pass but free pieces of sugar cane.

The right of a negrito has never been an olympics inauguration night.

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