Rumba

In the heat of a Havana night, the rumba calls,
A pulse of drums that beats like a restless heart.
Feet slide on cobbled stones, hips sway in slow‑motion waltz,
Each step a whispered story, each turn a bright‑coloured flare.

The claves snap, a crisp conversation between wood and skin,
While maracas shiver like laughter caught in a summer breeze.
Singers lift their voices, molten and warm,
Weaving tales of longing, of joy, of endless, turning tide.

Around the circle, strangers become kin,
Hands find shoulders, eyes lock in quiet understanding.
The rhythm spills onto the streets, a living tide,
Turning ordinary moments into a shared, exuberant feast.

So let the rumba rise, let it spill its fire,
A dance that binds the past to the present, soul to soul,
In every beat, a reminder that life, like music,
Is best lived when we move together, in step, in colour, in song.