When I Sang America

I remember a reoccurring dream, my infantile reality. The young Sorangel is sitting in the front gallery on a lazy afternoon—everyone calls it “siesta.” My vision shifts along with hers as we catch a glimpse of a small creature fluttering along, moving in a rhythmic pattern—coming towards her. It lands on her, I think it tickled her as if it was to penetrate her, but it didn’t. It flew away… She’d woken up to the unsatisfying tickle of opportunity For she’d sung America for far too long—without knowing the meaning of the words; Without knowing the meaning of the stars that spangled onto stripes Without knowing that there were 49 other parts; not just one—not just the newfound York; Just knowing of the laurels and palms and Dios, Patria, Libertad with the hoisted red and blue; Just knowing of the calls to Libertad! Libertad! Libertad! in the land’s song Just knowing of Santiago de los Caballeros Of Santiago of the Knights—the knights that hold the shield to the land’s banner. But that was not all there was to know as she sang to America. Thus she came to find out herself— It wasn’t a lazy afternoon once more in New Amsterdam. My vision shifts as I catch a glimpse of a small creature fluttering along, moving in a rhythmic pattern, coming towards me. It lands on me, I think it tickled me as if it was to penetrate me, and it did. I became that butterfly… And there I knew That America had heard my song.