Apre midi anba pye mango a

Travel to the Haitian hills,
A land that time forgot,
A verdant valley kindness fills,
And find more than you sought.
Watch your step, the slippery rocks,
As you cross the flowing stream,
Women wash their matted locks,
And ebony cherubs gleam.
Venerate the Holy Ghost
But leave the children naked,
For of the things revered here most,
The clothing isn't sacred.
Rice and beans to fill yours pants,
A mango if you chose it,
But fill your soul with song and dance,
Above all, gospel music.
Football played, no socks or shoes,
And limestone rocks for goals,
Elated children, win or lose,
Rejoice on calloused souls.
A women hastens up her pace,
The sack of charcoal smolders,
A nameless dame embodies grace,
Her fortune on her shoulders.
Mornings find us in the fields,
Shucking corn from husk,
But in the eve the labor yields,
And it's dominoes at dusk.
The stars reveal their brilliant light,
Too many to believe,
A somber breeze whispers "goodnight"
Through rustling mango leaves.