To the catafalque at Écija, in honor of Queen Margarita
Icarus of flannel, if of pine
a Cyclops not, huge as a colonnade,
you try to fly with wings just like a chicken,
when clearly you're on four feet like an ass?
What Dedalus in his odd way induced you
to crown with clouds the intellect itself,
if those waves, which Betis from its reefs
unlooses, will disgrace your foolish acts?
Don't give the sun more wax, for it is folly,
funereal ostrich, structure sporting wings,
nor feed the press of Europe with this scoop.
Wait for the town, where at the noonday hour
if old chef Mourning won't cloak it in batter,
chef Sweat is sure to serve it up in soup.
Translated by Alix Ingber
