*I’m rather an absent-minded chap;
Where it was I am not clear
Somewhere – there on your Spanish map.
The name? I forget. It was somewhere queer.
There were mountains, of course, and a stream that leapt
Rioting under the old stone bridge,
A huddle of low-pitched roofs that crept
Up to the gaunt church tower on the ridge.
There in the velvet Spanish night,
Suddenly, up from the village square
Soared a voice like a rocket’s flight
Quivering through the perfumed air.
In a song that seemed like a savage prayer
To some old, forgotten, heathen god.
Soared and die; and the whole affair
Ended for me. But it still seems odd
That I glimpsed one moment – what? Life’s meaning?
I can’t explain or forget at all
That strange unearthly gypsy keening
In a village whose name I can’t recall.
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