Guatemala changes to winter in May
and then cold the rain comes.
Storm clouds gather in council on the mountains
to beat warm their thunder drums.
The roses return to full bloom in the garden
and their thorns love like razors.
Drops fall heavy on adobe ground
to hide weary undulators.
Who calls anxious to the river
but the water
Who calls worried to the dirt road
but the mud
And who calls angry at the winter
but sompopos at dinner
Who calls quickly to their children
but a mother who knows the flood
Where will the flood take the hillside
but to the river where water returns
And sompopos in May,
what right they have dismay
When they had all summer to run
The mudstomp is at 5:30 tonight
All the mudstompers will be there
Even the ones who don’t stomp too good
Be stomping at the mud affair.
Paty’s a good stomper
She stomps with her brother
And the rain don’t bother
Gustavo’s the best
He stomps better than the rest
He was born a good boy
With a mudstompin touch.
We’ll stomp for an hour
before mother yells for showers
And when the stomping ends
We’ll part for the night
With the mud stomped just right
Stomped good by me and my kin.