Amigo

Down clotted roads of clay

Isolate as Delta or Ozark farms;

Past the barren ball of the sun

For five hours in the wrong direction:

The lost Locale and sus pasajeros:

A farmer and uno touristo perdito

Who, sitting next to each other

On the hard seat, sat silently.

Toward home, inscribed on the window

Were the words: "Con Dio me fue."

The grass stood still, pines hovered

At the edge of split-rails

The engine´s rods clanked like a bell,

Until, at last, the old man rose

His straw hat planted firmly on his ears

Turning as he descended,

And through the void of the dark

As through the silence of the grave

Of silent fathers,

As through the thousand deprivations

Between unknown father and unknown son

Which have ever existed under the ashen blue

Of a single, feeble star:

Said, politely: "Amigo, Amigo"