The Filed of the embroidered quit

A boy of this village has long dark curls, A dark and bee-black face That glows as brightly as the flowers And fresh as the young rice blades, That mingle with the deeper hue of the grass Which newly springs on the land, Like tendrils of the creeping pumpkin, His delicate boyish hand.

His body has the grace of the green tamal tree Whose dark trunk bends to the storm; And when he is freshly anointed with oil, Like rain-washed cloud, his form; The playful lightining slips o'er his limbs, Spreading the Game of light;