Aankondiging Parra dice Music Meeting 2025
Hear the trumpets
Hear the pipers.
Try to be present through the violence,
because times like these creep up on you slowly,
never leave quiet.
A thin line between the coal mines
and diamond,
between yours and mine—
lies from kindness.
Between green and red,
blue and white,
black and brown—
are waking up to just how slippery the ICE is.
Hear the trumpets.
Hear the pipers.
Sound thy ram’s horn,
for the forlorn empire is dying.
Because the crimes of those who chose to incite them
shall be reflected upon—
probably too late,
probably too stylish,
too gentrified,
too centrist, because we are frightened
of confrontations that have already come to pass.
We came from the past
and show you futures whose brightness
scares those
who don’t heed the trumpets,
heed the pipers—
they, who only lay
back and dance to all the jazz,
but don’t recognize the resistance behind it.
Do you see the airwaves blow,
like the waves of emancipation go
in and out—
blaringly loud
or soft and slow?
Don’t ignore those trumpets,
don’t ignore the pipers.
Don’t you dare sleep on the drums
that manifested our desires
to rock and roll,
throw and duck,
bob and weave.
Please leave
if you have seen and stayed through it all
and don’t know about the
trumpets,
don’t know about the pipers.
Within earshot of this stage
are those who are willing to lay
in withering rain,
to remain adamant
when the dogs of the cabinet
come out to play.
No dog whistle here today—
only trumpets, pipers, drums, guitars, and the highest
of frequencies to combat the constant dissonance
that breathes with me.
I’ll say it slowly for those who identify themselves as senior citizens,
or those of less ability:
these trumpets and these pipers—
this music is bigger than breaching silence.
It’s paradise.
It’s not about you, them, or me—
it’s about what defines us
as people:
free.
These people
will blow their trumpets,
will shake behinds for you,
will make this moment in space and time timeless, too.
Because each and every one
knows that when the trumpets sound,
we have already won.
A copper chorus
zeroes in on our
postures
and makes sure we understand the tones of tolerance.
Free to one
is not for me—
it’s for us,
one to free.
Free to one
is not for me—
it’s for us,
one to free.
Don’t be asinine.
This land of you and me,
and one-eyed liars,
will belong to those who dance to the trumpets,
dance with the pipers.
Only they will know where their paradise is.