funky drummer riffs dripping off the walls like peeling pastel paints
junkyard dogs & streets clogged with processions praising syncretic saints
the cobblestones are jumping
impossibly fly women krumping
bumping around steep hills and narrow lanes
in this crucible where new myths are framed
the fracas grows louder
harder
fades in and out as the bands move along
the Pelhourinho is a mobile song
a moveable feast
a shuffling throng
with their ankles greased
getting down and dirty in front of decaying facades:
these Churches have no illusions:
they know that rhythms are Gods...
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