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A personalized view of the hardships of growing up in Spain under Franco's dictatorship. |
[Note: This poem is incomplete at the moment. I was hoping to get some feedback on what I have so far. The full poem will have ten sections of four stanzas each.] Manchegan Decalogue Prelude: When I walk the barren land Looming hills of sun-burnt sand Hide the traces of my work: Wrath on sinners that I took. I am the LORD of this land Thy God with blood-stained hands Eternally cleansed of my crimes Striking down each Peter Grimes. I. The boy held his head up high As he tended to the sheep Crossing the windswept plateau toward Andalucía: winter’s keep. Francisco Franco and his LORD Rid the land of Marxist sores Like the Catholic kings of old Who lay waste to all the Moors. Autumnal winds brought in the cold Already present in hearts half-starved Parched of thirst for water and choice For freedom is ever loved. Those who suffered heard the voice Like Moses in Sinai heard say Thou shalt have no other gods Before me, your cacique. II. Pausing to take a backward glance Toward the white-washed windmills, spinning Like giants across the rose-gold sky The boy saw his god, grinning. LORD formed Man with a heavy sigh In His image the Church found sin Bathed in the righteous blood of Man Franco made Spain born again. Around the hearth rural families stand To warm their hands and relax their bones Hear chilling tales from their padre Of______________[unfinished line]. Over nearby hills there lay the façade Of Man’s stone idol with copper oxide The boy thought to himself how peculiar It was that their LORD resides inside. III. As thoughts of god led back to his father Every evening the nightmare returned To haunt the boy and remind him of why The Church was the evil his father had spurned. Perhaps the clergy thought they were white lies Intended to coerce the horde of believers To follow a code of strict behavior Based on pompous smoke and deceitful mirrors. In stark contradiction to the words of their Savior The faithful despised sinners, thinking they are higher Than those freedom-loving rebels who never drank the wine The Church led them in witch hunts and trials by fire. The boy’s father took Franco’s name in vain one time Questioning those who only believe in Revelation As to why the Valley of the Fallen was solely made To commemorate soldiers of Franco’s station. IV. The boy shuddered in his sleep Recalling that dreaded Sunday When his father was dragged to town For the things he’d had to say. The priest came out in his regal gown To publicly condemn this one “For blasphemy against Church and State This shall be your last glimpse of sun.” The gathering crowd was incited to hate When the priest assured them of this man’s sin And told them to enact God’s wrath “Let the thunderous rain of stones begin!” The boy cannot forget that Sabbath It is seared into his memory How his father’s fiery blood Pooled in the streets of Gethsemane. |