The Muse of the Caribbean

And soon thereafter, she returns. Her sweet words come singing in my ear, on the vibe of a pulsating reggae beat.

Under the plum clouds that cling to, and roll off the majestic Blue Mountains, the Muse´s Caribbean Kingdom lies. Through the lush green jungle, her old pastel blue and white colonial abode is found. Wiry bombaclaat rasta sentinels with natty dreads and wood-handled machetes stand guard, but over a blessed peace offering, they let me pass to find our lady of the Caribbean, our Queen of the Muse.

Under banners of green, yellow and black tapestries, she sits on a bed of pillows. Her natty black dreads lay lightly on her dark shoulders, and she is wrapped in robes of rasta royalty. Her green eyes peer out through a plume of silver smoke, as she sips her june plum juice. With a natural mystic of reggae harmony flowing through the air, she sits in silence. She takes a deep breath, and sings out in a crisp voice the same music that filled the hearts of so many of this troubled island paradise.

It was the words the sang in the hearts of the Treelawny Maroons, as they escaped under a cover of darkness into the dense jungle, away from the British colonial slave masters. They were the words that Marcus Garvey proclaimed as he told his fallen people of their deep-rooted pride. They were the melodies, pure and true, that serenaded Robert Nesta, and that the saintly Bob Marley filled the Trenchtown ghettos. Her message is as simple as it is true: One Love, One Heart.