Hasta La Vista, Panama
By: Anonymous

Amigos mios, tell me how I'm going to get along
Without the cadence of the palm tree, as it songs its plaintive song
The fresh, earthy perfume of the jungle after the rain,
The sensuous rhythm of the rhumba with its throbbing refrain.
The relentless pounding of the surf against the shore.
The soft, purring Castellano when it speaks of El Amor
The feverish search for the number you dreamed of - on Monday,
The feeling of surging hope before eleven o'clock - Sunday.
The coolness of the Tropic Bar as you drink a Scotch high,
The disappointment of the Hindu when  you pass his shop by.
The babies without pants, who stare, wide-eyed as you pass,
The copper colored Indians, curled sleeping on the grass.
The reckless gaiety of the construction mob on Saturday night,
The thrum, thrum of the low-winged bomber on its flight,
The stupendous fury of the tropical shower
The heady aroma of the ginger flower,
The bobbing tembleques, the swirling skirts,
The handsome men in Montuno shirts,
These are the things I'll keep close to my heart,
When Panama and I, at last, have to part.
And as Nombre de Dios fades from my view,
I'll keep the high faith that the Chagres Legend is true.

From The Canal Record - December 1998

Presented by CZBrats
December 24, 1998
articlesb.gif (1646 bytes)MMy.gif (1755 bytes)