Our early morning chat on your cool terrace
explained the little grunting noise you often make,
as you told me how, a little boy in his charge,
you’d seen a priest murdered by the Popular Front
right here in the square – your grunt swelling
to a choking stifled sob … Then, quite calm again,
you gestured at a stone-faced old man hobbling by
bent double over a stick: he was one of them.