When I got up and looked out of the window the village was
floating on a cloud. I walked to where the cloud ended and
saw the pampas of Argentine and horses galloping in a circle
around a dead cypress. The horses looked tired and starved,
but could not stop their senseless galloping around the tree.
There were also many dead foals trampled down in the dust.
I was in Buenos Aires once, remember a great ballroom and
a big marble staircase I saw the dictator’s wife walk down it.
She was dressed in white and striking at a distance, but close
up she looked hollow eyed and her skin was yellow. A band
played wiener waltzes, officers and their women danced with
decorum. It was only when thousand guitars struck up a cord,
music born from paucity and dreams to break free and flee,
the dictator’s lady smiled and looked young again.
