‘F’ is for the Blood of an Englishman
-Despues del hermano de Padre Bazan
With lance in hand and galloping on his ass,
Don Quixote’s reasonable emigrant son
charges the desolating contraptions
turning up dilapidation in the wind.
He turns like the wind, waving his winnowing fans
and separating grain from chaff,
already planting the seeds of next year’s meadows
while his winter furnace will consume the straw.
In that day, as new windmills rise upon the horizon
and the Sun sets beneath the coastline
at the farthest ends of the Earth’s New World,
the grain that remains will be stored up
and the grinding for bread will be done
by the Light of the Lord.