These Spanish plains in Summer die
beneath a cloudless, cobalt sky,
are nestled by the mountains feet
where valley floor and foothills meet,
beside great rivers all run dry.
While peasant farmers toil and try,
to eke a living, wonder why
God’s plan for them is so discreet.
These Spanish plains.
But Sunday comes they raise on high
His adulation, “God,” they cry,
“We love you but you bring defeat,
and kill our crops with searing heat.”
Then shrug and mutter with a sigh
“These Spanish plains.”