In July we saw another Holy Week
crammed full with certain confraternities
--that soldiers around here call companies--
that turn our folks, but not the English, meek.
Such a crowd of feathers loomed around,
that in barely fourteen or fifteen days
their pygmies and Goliaths flew away,
and what they'd built fell, crumbling, to the ground.
The calf roared loud, and set them all in line;
a thunder shook the earth, the sky turned dark,
and threatened to bring everything right down;
in Cadiz, then, triumphant and refined,
with no alarm --the Count now having gone--
the great Duke of Medina entered town.
Miguel de Cervantes 1547 - 1616
(© Alix Ingber, 1995)
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