Le Temps Revient...

Poetry, Music, Art & Ideas for the Archaic Recurrence...

miércoles, 16 de febrero de 2011

Hispania Citerior Canto IV: Vich.

A new way of life 'twas ready to dawn,
And arriv'd he in Vich one fateful morn',
On a plain where many think of naught but gain,
Where e'en the priest poet Verdaguer was driven insane!

The descent 'twas steep yet not easily apparent,
Entrance to Vich Castell ne'er did happen,
Try 'though thou didst -all but in vain!
The dwellers thereabouts gave o'er naught but pain.

Speaketh we not like those of thy kind,
Against Castile who wanteth only to bind,
Like the vile oppressors hast thou now found,
That unto them shalt we ne'er be bound!

That brute! Castile! Aristocratic effeteness!
Lacketh thee common sense, thy former greatness!
'Tis from thee now long deceas'd,
Hardly wouldst thy sloth and privilege release!

Who carries the burden of thy infamous fame?
El burro Català -work'd hard until lame,
They releas'd a pestilence across our land,
Submit to the crown -whilst ye can!

La fet differential 'though first amongst merits,
Causeth untold blindness, deaf dost but say it,
Addictions obsessive to things material, 
Canst thou perceiveth aught more espiritual?

Of classical austerity know not they,
A land of butifara and a bail of hay,
An obstinate resistance doth there hark,
La Lengua del Imperio not here heard bark'd!

Conflicted interests heed thee be!
What matter thy contrasts that ye doth see?
That from up close seem so immense?
Mutual respect! Ne here nor there! Feelings intense!

A history long drawn out, ne'er forgot,
That to the rote, acceptest not thy lot!
A culture once scorn'd is alike to a lady,
Who craves rather revenge, sooth not the malady!

To be fore'er ne "for" nor "against",
And see beyond where wouldst others put up a fence,
'Tis not such a task so easily done,
So from that scorch'd earth he found himself gone...

Yet didst remain there some dear to his heart,
Who soften'd the bitter torment -that necessity of art,
While he regal'd himself of the days there spent,
To a nostalgic sentiment he didst passively relent.

Many more an emotion travers'd his soul,
And without those few who help'd him towards his goal,
Wouldst he not hath been perhaps better?
To have given more? Focus'd? On to the letter?

Such as the night gave o'er to you,
And thy Valencian friend aught to do,
The e'ening pass'd swiftly, rauxous in zest,
Many a consumption sank down on behest!

There that night didst they meet,
An Andalusian girl in a backstreet,
Who led 'em forth, all were in earnest,
To a pack'd out place in the midst of a furnace!

There the heat of the summer noon tide,
Didst but inflame those passions inside,
And there by the side, stood by a cage,
A dark featur'd Hembra sent his heart into rage!

Someone to fill out the void of the nights,
While upon the dawn disinterest 'twas felt for the fight,
Enlanc'd one unto the other, pass'd the twilight,
Made all the more blissful and of solitude slight.

There 'twas but ano'er who twisted his heart,
And play'd to his measure, understood rarely thou art,
A playful girl of shambolic renown, 
The two pass'd their time, drunken -that's how!

Further into the mists of the town,
A place so enclos'd as to leave ye unbound,
That there couldst thou follow a life led with ease,
And chase after the mantra, "Do as ye please!"

Taken on through a night full of revelry,
Fallen back broken down destructively,
Out and about wouldst I wish thee to be!
Not mine but your own! Virtually free!

Onward bound to the soft spark of day,
The rains wouldst pour down in their own way,
Not down from the sky in an e'en descent,
Rather cascading from rooftops -heaven be spent!

Up out of the ground, gushing unused,
The town became so much more than abus'd,
Aught not to come about these realms, a monsoon!
Rather leave off thy waters! From hell! Thee doth croon!

On his doorstep maltreated -The Temple of Zeus,
Fitfully broken, impious abuse!
Out of its context put to any a use,
No wonder Olympus' father sends rains so obtuse!

The end of an era you signal'd us near,
What sayeth thee Athena? Who lead me here?
The Gods canst not show us their thanks,
'Tis through we they speak, rather in angst!

For what dost thou wait? Onward! Proceed!
Believeth thee that thy feet doth bleed?
The moment 'tis ripe, let young fruit be pluck'd!
'Lest it fall unwanted, down to the ground be shook!

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