One day El viejo came from the land where the sun goes down
And now he relives his fabulous roams, south of the border town.
On sun-baked patio stones los niños gather to hear
Him tell of those wonder-filled days (his burro waits patiently near)
His sombrero shadows his brow, but, dream-filled, the old eyes glow
With gnarled brown finger at lips, he signals: Silencio!
Los niños grow still as the stones; no sound but the fountain’s play
Breathless they wait for the tales El viejo will tell them this day
Their eyes are lustrous and dark, like pebbles in a stream
Unnoticed paloma flies over los niños caught up in their dream
Los niños are carried away to far-off mesas and skies
To the place where the sun goes down and the land where new moons rise
Where montañas touch and the clouds and trees soar green and tall
They learn of the niños there, and they yearn to know them all
El viejo had traveled far, to the land where the sun goes down
And now he re-dreams those days, south of the border town.
#Storytelling #HispanicCulture
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