The Ghosts Of Sierra Madre

They stole your ticket to the Revolution,

Then they stomped you good.

Come into the scene now,

O fellow Exiles,

Lisping your pure Spanish,

Your defiant eyes laughing

Into the chamber of long revolvers,

Into the din of Mexican curses. 

They torture you for secrets,

You defy their hatred,

You whisper your Psalms,

They cut you, then cut you loose,

You shine through the celluloid 

flickering in those Saturday afternoons.

Your pale eyes peer through the blinds,

the cuts are slow to heal,

the Gaucho’s lament trickles in the hot wind,

In the burning Monterey sun,

closing the blinds for siesta.

your little sunflower is curled in your bed,

you will have many women,

but none as rare.

you are the pale star in the arc of sunlight,

you go to her now,

she opens her flower.