If we were to spin a tale, een Sprookje,
about a girl who soaked up the warm air,
who was mesmerized by the lush green,
and worshiped the star speckled skies of Paramaribo.
A girl who spent hours staring at mineral rich waters,
and densely packed forests,
adrift on het meer,
intoxicated by beauty and brilliance.
A girl who danced entire evenings away to the rhythms of kaseko…
We might also write about the secret.
The secret of the spell cast over her when first she heard
kay manman la te ke tramble.
The spell that sets her eyes ablaze like fire,
her hair tracing the pattern of her body, swaying, turning,
transformed every time by zouk.
Her arms are set free as they pay homage,
they too are in a trance, they too feel its magic -
zouk their master, zouk their salve.
Nothing before then means anything,
nothing before then, exists.
zouk la sé sèl médikaman nou ni…