Dedicatory poem to my translated version of Lope's Gatomaquia

In Spain there is a mountain

surrounded by a forest

Of trees of purest pine.

And near this mountain a church

With a forgotten tomb.

To the right stands an olive tree

grown large and unseemly

after centuries’ long bloom.

Taken for a southern queen

planted in foreign soul.

To the left a yew tree

A hearty native

Immune to nature’s ax,

The outgrowth of a king’s decaying bones,

Now vegetable

Now mineral.

Yet it so happens that things

are often lost

In the grips of time’s oblivion .

Stowed away like nicknacks

Until some rummager awake them

Thus oh Lope,

As the weary world dillies on

In war and rumors of wars.

Methinks the world lacks

an ember of your genius.

Just to recall life's wonder

quicken by the joys of art.

Your poetry written in flowing verse,

washing away all madness and sorrow.

For as they say

a poet who doesn’t blot

Is no poet at all.