XV
Spain, Take This Cup from Me
(For Spanish translation click here)

Children of the world

if Spain falls—I say, if it should happen—

if they tear down from the sky

line her forearm, held in a sling

shot by two terrestrial rings;

children, how old the hollow temples!

How premature in the sun what was spoken to you!

How soon in your chest the ancient outcry!

How old the numeral 2 in your notebook!

Children of the world, this

Mother Spain is with her belly lying down,

our school teacher with her authority,

our mother and teacher,

cross and wood, taking you to the heights!

dizziness and division and addition, children;

while her elders stood to accuse!

If she falls—I say, if it should happen this way—if

from the earth to the lowest depths,

children, you will be stunted in the prime of your youth!

How the year will punish the month!

How will you remain with your ire in ten to those teeth,

In the drumstick, the diphthong, the medallions in tears!

How the little lamb stays

with its foot tied to the big inkstand!

How will you descend from the stone steps of the alphabet

until you reach the letter where suffering is born?

Children,

offspring of warriors, meanwhile

lower your voice, Spain is distributing right now

energy among the animal kingdom,

the little flowers, the comets, and man.

Lower your voice, because she is

with her vigor that’s great without knowing

what to do, holds in her hand

the skull, that speaks and speaks and speaks,

the skull, with braids of hair,

the skull, that one of the living!

Lower your voice, I tell you;

lower your voice, the song of the syllables, the wailing

of the subject matter and the lesser sounds of the pyramids, and even

of the temples which throb like the rubbing of two stones!

Lower the breath, and if

the forearm drops dead

to its side, if the splints sleep, if it is night,

if the sky fits into two terrestrial limbos

that can never be closed,

if there are creakings in the threshold sounds,

if I am late,

if sooner or later no one is seen on the streets, if you’re frightened

those pencils without nibs, if the mother

Spain falls—I repeat, just supposing it happens—

go forth, children, of the world; and go out to find her! . . .