(Cont.d)and footsteps of barefooted women,
our women who leave behind
in the house a baby in the cradle
and spend the day hoeing,
silent, desperate,
without tasting food,
without drinking a drop of water,
waiting only for quitting time,
the time to return home,
so as to lean, their bones aching
and full of fear, over the cradle.
But will I ever hear again,
echoing under a bridge,
the footsteps of happy people,
footsteps of tipsy people,
of people going to weddings,
of people going to the sheep shearing,
of people going to make love,
footsteps of people going to the solemn mass,
of people going to the village festivals
in September, on Sunday at dawn?
I close my eyes and see