rather an absent-minded chap;
it was I am not clear
- there on your Spanish map.
name? I forget. It was somewhere queer.
were mountains, of course, and a stream that leapt
under the old stone bridge,
huddle of low-pitched roofs that crept
to the gaunt church tower on the ridge.
in the velvet Spanish night,
up from the village square
a voice like a rocketís flight
through the perfumed air.
a song that seemed like a savage prayer
some old, forgotten, heathen god.
and die; and the whole affair
for me. But it still seems
I glimpsed one moment - what? Lifeís
canít explain or forget at all
strange unearthly gypsy keening
a village whose name I canít recall.