Fashions of la Libertad

In the dirt road of the dirty town, the little
Ecuadorian soldiers march without shoes,
untidy and sad but 0 perfectly at home
amongst the dogs and fowl and potbellied children.
Everyone, it seems, walks barefoot in that town,
the peon, the crone, the cripple, the mother, all
shamelessly barefoot; all but the tall American
soldier striding in glittering shoes, who says
“These people are no good.”

         But what they possess,
he is without. He walks in shoes, but they walk
shod in despair, unpolished but everlasting.
His uniform is handsome but they wear poverty,
not trim like khaki but durable to death.
He smiles now and soon he will scowl or laugh,
but their faces are not twisted, are beautifully calm
with dolór, dolór, the dark grief of the Indian.