And here I admit to expose my game,
'Lest my poem fall short of its aim,
Many a phrase so politically charg'd,
Iberia! By Romans, you were brutally barg'd!
There it came to pass, once where,
The peninsula of Ilerda didst bear,
The clash of iron, steel didst they possess,
Iberia's flower 'twas to the toga redress'd!
A man of fame, of he be there no need to mention,
Who saw through many a deed, realiz'd his intention,
And in his own words, as he related,
Crush'd Pompey's sons, through necessity not hatred.
As Gaius was he known to but a few,
An Uncle to one whose future there grew,
To epic proportions by dint of adoption,
And left the whole world with little in options!
As Julius was he known to many more still,
In his life they all were bent to his will,
'Cept those who chose otherwise to oppose,
By the knife and their own hand, at the forum impos'd!
As Caesar was he known to all who came after,
Marty'd? Butcher'd? Slain justly? Disaster?
Who canst know of what other world thought he?
A republic collapsing or on the brink of glory?
Well, 'twas here in Ilerda, to get back to our theme,
'Lest we lose ourselves in a pathetic historical dream!
That Caesar didst come conquering as he himself said,
Now in his footsteps others follow, modestly led.
By a native lad possess'd of a jolly temper,
Far from Caesar's dark forebodings, eadem semper,
Which is but to say that all be the same,
Believe it if ye will 'though 'tis a philosophy tame!
The present vista seen there in that morning bright,
An air crisp to breath, inhale it as thou might,
And across el campo didst they there treck,
Where campesinos work, 'lest livelihoods come to wreck.
"A tierra rich in soil,
Which giveth of Hispanic oil,
Out where agricolas toil,
Below a harsh sun they'd boil".
Make the most of thy immodest gains,
Be lucky enough! Take profit in vain,
A land of plenty, naught to waste be left,
Yet whom needeth most -denounc'd of theft!
Ilerda be situated there on a hill,
Below which runs a river where it will,
And e'er ye doth find the ciutat's crooked lanes,
To the summit the Iglesia, dost count off thy pains!
A people of tradition, all married therein,
Of Christ's noble sacrifice, believeth they still,
Oh Rome! Hadst thou not built roads so straight!
Couldst beggars hath brought, ne love nor hate!