I love from my window to look at
The road being travelled on…
The broad, washed road
that lights up first in the day, holding both its sides together.
I hear young girls with flowers in their baskets,
Their skirts running swift and merry—
Old men sit and talk of what I cannot know,
I try harder, leaning upon them from my window.
At the sound of little boys running,
full glee—I know they have
guns in their hands—
they shoot and kill each other and run on
laughing louder.
I hear them fall and get up,
I hear them everyday.
The sellers and buyers come
Looking for wants—up the road
I do not know how much or what they get,
But they come everyday.
The young men and women walking past and stopping in smiles, perhaps.
Hurrying workers and lazy little dogs with their moms.
It has never been anything for anyone to look down upon a rushed morning road—
Someone else must have leaned down many years ago…
But it is me they look up at, and wonder…I know,
They have forgotten, as people ever do,
To remember, how well once I could hear, and see too…
