In me is a little painted square Bordered by old shops, with gaudy awnings. And before the shops sit smoking, open-bloused old men, Drinking sunlight. The old men are my thoughts: And I come to them each evening, in a creaking cart, And quietly unload supplies. We fill slim pipes and chat, And inhale scents from pale flowers in the center of the square . . . Strong men, tinkling women, and dripping, squealing children Stroll past us, or into the shops. They greet the shopkeepers, and touch their hats or foreheads to me . . .