Iberian Spring

Brazen adieus,
miscibly mixed
and echoed in
the streets,
shattered the
pane of an old
cathedral.

Sickly and detered,
the "prince of poor" so crumbled,
waters proving
stronger than gold.

"A single shilling,"
her disdainful cry,
"buried in the pockets
of greedy men!"
(A token of conquest
set on high.)

"Nothing more, yes, nothing more,
a Spaniard 'rayed in garb of Hell."

A buccaneer, a buccaneer!
"O turn away, dear buccaneer
(dear traitor of my soul)!"

"Heaven's faded
like the day,
a bubbling fount of memories am I."
(Iberian spring,
a spewing
secret of the night.)

"A traitor born to hell I see,
a traitor to his God and king.
May Peter bar you entrance,
and Purgatorio hold its sting!"

But look! What wonder is this?
Heavy shower in a month so dry?!
And Santiago de la Vega,
lifting high his head,
echoes in his streets
a sobbing cry:
"Dear God, he's dead!
And where am I?
Where am I?"