Flower of aridity upon high stilts

Stride over the future paying you its due

The aping masses high and low the only

Wealth of gold sequins that you ever had.

Blithe vagrants on the rock and the most elegant

Of families of a court with noble grins

The great iron hand of Spain without its gloves

Saving those condemned to die by sheer default.

The sack of a burning city without water

To drink required that you come down silently

And you in the other sack of oats on your back

Your mother burning being reborn from her ashes.

I wrote this homage at the Prado in-

sufficient for the picturesque and your lively smile

Swimming gracefully in the waves you caught

In the Andalusian thread of silver snot.

(translated by Charles Guenther)