Woman in the Rainy Season

The cup of the night overflows. Torrential rains pour down.
Night and rain. Rain and night. The hivernage.
And a woman alone in the night and the downpour.
She moves to the distant drumming of the tom-toms,
writhing snakelike in the rain
as if in the embrace of a man.
A woman in the old squeaky cart of the night,
a woman awakened by the roar of the rain,
a woman driven mad with joy,
dancing in the night in the rain, alone and naked.

And the rain comes down like healing for heavy wounds,
like freedom from dark forces and passions,
it comes down like murmurings, like caresses: Arise! Grow!
The rain comes down and this hivernage will never end
so long as the woman dances snakelike in the rain,
writhing as if in the embrace of a man.
The rain comes down and weaves its strange tales,
like the birth and the wail of your first-born child.