Upon a shallow bay the sun, the sacred phallus
and the rows
rose rows of planes tip-tilted in the sun
harsh angled shadows, rigid violet shade
and cactuses.
O cactuses, the Catalans
the spiny, crowded Catalans
their hands, they spread their palmate hands
roast, frozen, baked: the shallow soil
an ancient, bitter shallow soil
sustains, but just sustains their roots
resentfully sustains their roots.
Their god for ever is the sun. He kills
and feeds them: holy sun.
Their hands for ever to the sun.
Inimical, the cactuses
with spines hard eager in their hands
this land, this acrid land is theirs
You want to share the sterile land?
Old, savage, worn, resenting land?
And worship too?
No room: the thorns are close
and closer close the crowded hands
Yet in the thorns you see a fruit
a strange, a living, crimson fruit
the sun-engendered blazing fruit
and
The matrix of the Catalans