by Salomón de la Selva (1893-1959)
Blue pink and yellow houses, and, afar,
The cemetery, where the green trees are.
Sometimes you see a hungry dog pass bay,
And there are always buzzards in the sky.
Sometimes you hear the big cathedral bell,
A blind man rings it; and sometimes you hear
A rumbling ox-cart that brings wood to sell.
Else nothing ever breaks the ancient spell
That holds the town asleep, save, once a year,
The Easter Festival. . . .
I come from there,
And when I tire of hoping,
and despair Is heavy over me,
my thoughts go far,
Beyond that length of lazy street,
to where the lonely green trees and the white graves are.