To Fray Esteban Izquierdo, a Franciscan brother, thanking him for a carafe of orange blossom water and some raisins.

The Dawn, with orange blossoms all adorned,
apportioned half its tears to your carafe,
which was not broken in its wanderings,
nor was it pilfered by the carter's staff.

Once separated from her laughing eyes,
each tiny drop, just like a fragrant pearl,
by a seraphic bee was, faithfully,
to wandering carafe duly transferred.

Clio owes you some grapes, like salted cod;
though minimal in habit, clearly plum,
in spite of this absurd circumlocution.

You make the fists of Alexander tight,
at Hales his chapel now seems second class,
what Stephen left, left naught to disillusion.