El Ultimo Suspiro Del Moro
Listen to poem:
The last sigh of the Moor, King Boabdil,
As he flees the triumphant Ferdinand,
Echoes round slopes of a mist-shrouded hill.
He looks back for the last time at the land
That he once ruled. `Weep as a woman will,’
His mother jeers behind her jewelled hand,
`For what you would not defend as a man!’
He stares northwards as long as he can,
Marvelling at the distant snow-capped hills
Gently cradling the Alhambra’s walls,
Its towers, placid ponds, and sparkling rills,
Treasuring them. Later, when he recalls
This scene, he deems its loss the worst of ills
That ever befell him, and, saddened, falls
To yearning for water from those mountains
And the Generalife’s dancing fountains.
A tale as romantic as any told -
This Moorish palace of earthly pleasure,
Its red stone, now mellowed to pink and gold,
Is a wonder of the world to treasure.
Like Boabdil, I want to hoard and hold
Its magical light, and, for good measure,
The sound of Granada’s gurgling streams
In my mind to recall in pleasant dreams.
Copyright © Alexander Blackie | Year Posted 2017
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