Always I think of that pueblo as soothed with evening,
Remembering bulbs of light that hung in the trees,
And the purple sky with its foreign heaven of stars,
And people pensively talking, their hands on their knees.
I remember the uneven roads with yard-deep ditches,
The stucco walls of the houses, Moorishly built,
And the Argentine women, old and wrinkled as witches,
Gossiping long in the doorways; and the lilt
Of a dance-tune beaten out in the local café,
Men padding home in their noiseless canvas shoes…
Always at evening that pueblo lives like a picture,
Painted in sunset colors, in twilight hues.
Changeless and colored, familiar too as a picture.
And even if I could find its site again
I could never bring it to life, I should find a strange village,
Full of anomalous voices and alien men.
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