The rhythm strummed from an electric guitar by a Tobagonian hand
Stirs in the gyrating waste of some carnival reveller over in Trinidad.
The sweat beading the backs of Vincentian farmers planting bananas
Is wiped off the brows of construction workers toiling in the Bahamas

As that in the river
Is in the sea to which it runs    
Like each finger is
A part of the hand it is on
Like that only day
With a never setting sun
We all are one