The Artist Claudio Barragan,photo by Nancy Vaughn
Morning In A Strange City
A mouth full of how-do-you-say?
and ears full of birdsong and builders,
eyes full of children and treetops,
red tile and red wines and green vines,
whitewash and washed clothes
and everywhere sun.
And shadow.
Evita’s air and fresh breeze and café doble
and diesel and dogshit and life
and death and jasmine and jazz.
And cats.
And the disappeared who do not disappear.
Oh, do not disappear. Oh, never disappear.
And hope. There is fresh breeze and hope.
And there are smiles.
Even the old woman smiles
as she walks by Cementario de la Recoleta.
Even the mask-maker smiles
as he makes his unsmiling masks.
- Ralph Murre
A mouth full of how-do-you-say?
and ears full of birdsong and builders,
eyes full of children and treetops,
red tile and red wines and green vines,
whitewash and washed clothes
and everywhere sun.
And shadow.
Evita’s air and fresh breeze and café doble
and diesel and dogshit and life
and death and jasmine and jazz.
And cats.
And the disappeared who do not disappear.
Oh, do not disappear. Oh, never disappear.
And hope. There is fresh breeze and hope.
And there are smiles.
Even the old woman smiles
as she walks by Cementario de la Recoleta.
Even the mask-maker smiles
as he makes his unsmiling masks.
- Ralph Murre
2 comments:
Business or pleasure? No matter, lucky you! On a country-hopping spree. Heehee. Welcome back.
Thank you, it's good to be back. I was on the very important business of a pleasure trip, and I am happy to report that it was a complete success. Wonderful people, art, weather, food, drink . . .
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