Spain

Spain, O Spain.
How mellow sounds your name in my ears.
Navarre, Catalonia, Aragon,
Castille, Andalusia.
The red, red rose
which kindles the peaks of the Nevada,
which scents the Alcazar and the Alhambra
smells of blood.
The granite of the Sierra
chiselled by purple shadows
oozes through its pores the sweat of exertion
like a wounded giant.
High up above everything
the sun beams with laughter like an auburn faced lion.
Thou Spain, land of scarlet,
where red glares in the strident satins
of the torero’s mantle..
in the skirt of the fandango dancers..
in the masses of coagulated blood
on the back of the statues of Christ the Redeemer..

I love you Spain: Like me thou lovest life,
love and hate,
pain, blood and sweat,
rhythm expressed in the fast clatter
of the castanets.

Throughout the ages did’st thou sing all this
in the roseate nudes of Francisco Goya,
in the Macarena played in the plaza,
in the songs of Lope de Vega and Garcia Lorca
in the seven daggers in the heart of the Pietaċ,
in every single drop of blood
that trickles on the scorching sand of the arena
resounding with the roar of Ole’ Ole’..