The procession passed
  	By my fenced yard
Between the red, red road
          And the cotton field
Before I was truly six,

Passed down the hill
          Of mothers, tired
Of sweeping their dirt floors
          In rooms un-ceiled
Of houses made of sticks.

I stood there by
          The anise bush
Gentle fingers touched my back,
          A heavenly touch of a heavenly smell,
As I watched the candles pass

With rosaries and pictures
          And a prayer filled hush
Filled with feet raising dust
          Red as the sun but pale
As the sunlight lit them from their mass.