Band is already walking. Warm, steady, no big wind-up.

Voice steps in like a face from the old neighborhood.

There it is—El Bimbo—on that easy guitar warmth.

Hands held now. Same unhurried groove, closer memory.

Words thin to la-las. Pulse keeps the body in the dance.

Years jump in one clean line, and the walk does not break.

Still upright band motion while the story goes dark.

Hopes melt on the line. Band stays almost gentle under it.

Old refrain returns. Same warmth, heavier cargo.