Perhaps 'tis said the place you belong,
Which seemeth hardest of all to make song,
For a long time staid he, feeling at home,
With little of torments, nor time being alone.
Life in the former colony of Barcino,
Pass'd swiftly perhaps little incognito,
With diversion aplenty, a stumbling mess,
Knowest thee still how to stop short of excess?
Howe'er once time had grown cold therein,
Too many adventures began to stunt him,
From a period of calm ne'er shouldst thou feel harm'd,
But content to recharge batteries, recklessly burnt!
And for those of ye all who speaketh the tongue,
Of Castilian glories, unequal'd and long,
Here in Barcino, where Rome worthily gave birth,
Slowly but surely the latin divers'd.
Here we doth have a society multilingual,
The polyglot hereabouts hath a habit to mingle,
In all manner of issues, not all be his own,
Each to their own business -here 'tis not known!
Although on the surface order dost rein,
The Eixample's fine set square seems to feign,
Yet lookest thee closer! Attempt passage on thy feet,
The noise is a racket hardly anywhere beat!
E'en here in what's thought the north of the south,
Govern'd and disgrac'd, law but a big mouth!
That spews it's wrath on a fickle people,
Who'd perhaps prefer to be led by Gaul's grand steeple.
Oh Jaime I 'Twas you! Once was the day!
When Barcino couldst follow through her own way,
To conquer and pillage -yet honourably!
Those Balearic Islands fell to thy sway!
Oh Castile! Was it then you?
Who knew but little? Yet tried to prove?
That these here provinces, Augustus divided,
Shouldst be unto you then united?
What meaneth now these words of old?
The latin preserv'd stories repeatedly told,
Hispania Ulterior, rich were thy mines,
Yet thy sons hath not develop'd tolerance of mind!
What couldst they mean these words here imparted?
Are Catalans like Poles in a land still uncharted?
Hispania Citerior wouldst thou agree?
Thy latin 'twas vulgar! Not of the clergy!
Herein to avoid certain names,
That such and such a country be not the same,
Provinces and regions, autonomy by degrees,
E'er waiting by whom next to be seiz'd!
A beauteous land 'twas set to bleed,
The trauma intense, canst thou not be freed?
Thy wounds were deep, still blood doth seep,
Yet looketh unto thy own mettle, rather than weep!
Thy traditions of old, Catalonia told,
Of pacts and deals and workers’ guilds bold,
Where The Counsel of the Hundred once existed,
E'en our Britannia's Doomsday book 'twas predated.
Yet why unto thee Britannia? Do others still look?
For a helping hand, when other nations’ liberty you took?
Or a gesture of friendship, when you turn'd a blind eye?
To those who had suffer'd, thy promise but a lie!
The Straits of Gibraltar, a sore point to any Spaniard,
Where once Heracles' Pillars had set the standard,
A foreign traveller was he also dutiously on a mission?
Yet he left an example, rather than demanding submission!
And of that Balearic Island, I remember not which of thee,
'Tis why a lazy historian makes recourse to poesy!
Didst Britannia bequeath thee back unto Hispania?
With other motives hidden, aye que vergonya!