Tertúlia

A jacket, a bonfire
A small house, a kettle
A longing, a bitter mate
And the workers passing the drink around
Night smelling of homeland
In the gatherings of my land

Gathering is the echo of voices lost in the countryside
Song sprouting freely, a new omen of dawn
It's rhyme without commitment, judgment, or castration
Where the beat of the heart sets the pace

It's the baptism of the nameless
Rodeo of the lost
Warning cry of the plains
Tribune of the oppressed
Gathering is the sound field
Without gates or fences
Where the guitar and the poet can cry embraced