Argentia

Argentina. 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.