Whose child is this,
wearing a cap of red carnations and
singing the Royal March?
What bludgeon beat this babe from its mothers arms, its
tongue spinning tales of Córdoba, but falling flat
upon the old language? Who whispers the name
of the Lord in the dirt of St. Augustine?
Whose mighty sword sheared the best bearing
of a thousand American years? What New World
riches cut dark tresses where a mother’s hands once labored,
where the free sun once bathed? Who treads there now, old
wooden city of León, that has cast a single prayer
to the red trail of a march long passed? Who now,
who now, hears the echoes?