When we were little we called it the walkside
and it liked the way we loved it.
On its suffering back we drew
so many hopscotch squares.
Later, full of ourselves, bootheels rapping,
the gang of us would strut around the block
whistling as loud as we could so the blonde
at work would come to the window of her shop.
One day my turn came to go far away
but I never forgot the walksides.
Here or there I feel them in my boots
like the faithful touch of my land.
Veredas De Buenos Aires, Julio Cortazar