Oh, Muse,

come to meet me,

as I come to look for you,

armed with the confused knowledge


and the lance of longing


on the spirited and emphatic horse

of  Warrior Poem,

sailor of stone lands

and thyme castles,

by the trooped meadows

of tips of arrow and

darts of heart,

collecting words

from the treetops

and the velvety bed

of the streams

for your crown of precious fish

and fir trees pearls

and metals like

space and time

and aluminium and gold!


And I will beg of the V

of ducks that crosses

like hope

the blue sky of the

mountains of Guadarrama:

Oh, take me with you

on your little feather back

like the cradle of a child,

take me with you

over the land that water the


that islamized in his passing

Muza the Moor,

take me to that

hot and loving heart

that they left in Al-Andalus grounds,

him and the jews

on leaving Spain!




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