through the jungle, on bamboo pilings,

cars covered with revolutionary graffiti

and an occasional vine,

where the farmers ride into the city

with chickens and produce to sell

children can see the sunny streets

and the villagers can retreat

to their wooded mountain towns

after a shopping day,

where the jungle rides into the city,

this is my home, these are my people.

Here I will eat, I will love, I will die,

as my ancestors before me.

No cannon, no banks nor lawyers,

no insurance salesmen nor preachers

trying to steal my soul,

though they are welcome on the streetcar

 they must care where they step

for all other ground is sinking sand,

all other ground is sinking sand.

(closing couplet borrowed from My Hope Is Built on Nothing Less

Edward Mote 1797-1874)