On the banks of the Duero
It was mid-July and a beautiful day.
Alone, I climbed gullies in the rocky scree,
moving slowly, seeking folds of shade.
From time to time I paused to mop my brow
and find some respite for my heaving chest;
then hurried on, my body bending forward
and to my right, spent but supported
on my stick, like a shepherd on his crook.
So I climbed to the heights where great birds
of prey live, treading the strong-scented
highland herbs – rosemary, thyme, lavender and sage.
A fiery sun blazed down on the sour fields.
A broad-winged vulture, in majestic flight,
lone in the sky, crossed the clear blue.
I could see, far off, a sharp mountain peak
and a rounded shoulder, like an embroidered shield,
and purple mounds rising from tawny earth –
scattered remnants of an ancient suit of armour –
the barren ranges where the Duero twists
to draw its crossbow curve
round Soria. Soria is a barbican
pointing to Aragon, with its tower in Castile.
I saw the horizon enclosed by dark hills
crowned with holm oaks and scrub;
naked rocks, some humble meadows
where merinos grazed and a kneeling bull
ruminated on grass; river banks thrusting
green poplars into the summer sun;
and silently, some far-off travellers,
so small – carters, horsemen, muleteers –
crossed the long bridge, while under the stone
arches the Duero’s silvered waters
darkened.
The Duero crosses the oaken heart
of Iberia and Castile.
Sad and noble land,
land of high plateaus, of wilderness and rock,
of fields unploughed, no watercourse or grove;
of crumbling cities, of roads without inns,
and bewildered rustics with no dance or song
who still flow, leaving their dying hearths,
like your long rivers, Castile, to the sea.
Wretched Castile, once the proud ruler,
wrapped in her rags, disdaining the unknown.
Does she sleep, wait, or dream? Does she recall
the blood spilt in fierce recourse to the sword?
Everything stirs, flows, wanders, turns or runs;
the seas change with the land and the observer’s eyes.
Has she gone? Over her fields still roams the ghost
of a people who set their God above war.
The once fertile mother of so many brave captains,
now barely a stepmother to indigent louts.
Once-generous Castile, long gone is the day
when Rodrigo of Vivar – El Cid – returned exulting
in his newly won fortune and wealth
to lay the groves of Valencia at the feet of Alfonso;
or when, after the deeds that proved your spirit,
you asked the court for the right to plunder
huge rivers of Indies; mother of soldiers,
warriors, champions, coming back laden
with silver and gold, to Spain, in proud galleons;
ravenous for their quarry, lions in the battle.
Now philosophers nurtured on monastery gruel
listlessly gaze at the endless skies;
and if in their dreams they hear the far roar
of bustling merchants on the quays of the East,
they will not trouble even to ask what it is –
and now war has forced open the gates of your house.
Wretched Castile, former proud ruler,
shrouded in tatters, despising the unknown.
The sun is setting. A harmonious peal of bells
reaches my ears from the distant city –
time for the rosary for old women in black.
Two neat little weasels slip out from the rocks,
stare at me, flee, peer out once again –
so curious! The plain grows dark.
By the white road the inn door opens
on the sombre fields and the rock-strewn wastes.
Translated by Paul Burns, Salvador Ortiz Carboneres
Page(s) 84-86
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