BARBED WIRE AND CAT GUT

The strings of his guitar are broken;
on each side the fence extends.
And now the teruteru's woken,
but its sad cry abruptly ends.

Deep in ruts as red as ochre,
Juanco's mare is skudding soil;
hooves that dance a carioca
onward through the sierras toil.

Lasso coiled beside his saddle,
knife unsheathed behind his belt,
the man is poised today astraddle
life's bent cards futilely dealt.

Out of history he is trotting
past verbena's blood-red spots,
thatched saloons where men are squatting,
women leaning over pots.

Here the scarlet-flowered ceibo
grows beside the wooded stream;
there the storm clouds throw a rainbow
or the summer marshes steam.

Distant basalt outcrop glowers
on the sierra's grey-green flanks;
storm clouds built in dizzy towers
rise above the Negro's banks.

From Salto all the way to Melo
chasing down the rising sun
or the moon in ghostly halo,
Juanco's race is never done.