In a lonely cabin on the frontier,
I, Clinton Rollins, attempting no literary style,
pass the time by penning my memories.
And as an old man my thoughts wander back:
The things that happened fifty years ago …
Spanish-Americans I have known
— whom I have grown to like …
And that warm, sweet, green odor of Central America.
The white houses with red-tiled roofs and with wide sunny eaves,
and a tropical courtyard with a fountain and a woman by the fountain.
And the heat making our beards grow longer.
What scenes return to my memory now!
A grey wave that comes blotting out the hills
and a muffled sound of flood waters rushing through the jungle
and the howls of monkeys on the opposite bank
and then the heavy, metallic beating of raindrops on the tin roofs
and the people running to take in the clothes from the ranch porches
and later the grey wave and the muffled sound moving off
and once again the silence …
And how it smelled of underbrush and the river turned leaf-green,
how the little steamboat looked there, calm as could be,
anchored to the shade of the jungle.
And the sudden flop of an iguana into the water,
the rumble of falling timber,
the distant shot of a rifle,
a Spanish word shouted from afar,
the laughter of the black women washing clothes
and a Caribbean song.
Axé. |
coldhearted scientist وداد 