El Forastero

From the plain he comes
says the fearful stride:
he asks one foot for permission
to lift the other
and the rough road
breaks him apart entirely.

They told him the litre tree casts bad shadow
when he was young
and he doesn't lean on any tree
unless it shades with another
he finds malicious intent
even in the merciful willow.

The mountain dwellers shout at him
at the last bend:
mountain paths
belong to God and us.

The voice of the wind that rushes
he hears with closed eyes
and makes a cross of sighs
for his resting plain
when the whirlwind passes
of paper and stone and dust.

I say the tall, resonant pines
sing at night.
The stranger knew nothing
of the short, fearful stride
and he leaves with permission
from one foot to lift the other.