In the mists of the morn when still Aurora was sleeping,

And the frogs were still croaking their own destiny,

I awoke today before the sun had shown his face on a Caribbean sky,

And I became fifty.Fifty years is a long time

For a man and especially a woman but not for a fledgling nation.

El Tucuche and Cerro del  Aripo clap their hands in salutation,and

The brackish waters of a muddy Caroni continue its journey,

Turning and turning before it empties its silt and grief ,

Into the Gulf of Paria where years before the ashes of ''the Doc''had been thrown.

But then,what do we celebrate?Our philosophy,tarnished by corruption,

And nepotism is a crop grown to replace the Chaconia.I have not fully shed

The chains of colonialism that bound me for centuries,

Since Colon,and his trinity of ships came to my shores.Hollywood

Films scenes from ''The Wild West'' everyday in the hills of Laventille.

If Descartes gave the world  Je pense donc je suis ,

Or ,if you prefer  cogito ergo sum ,but here not much thinking goes on,

For the state coffers have swayed many a griot who now sing

The praises of bacchanal whose  sweet rhythms seduce the masses.

At fifty,I groan in despair but then, perhaps better days are ahead.