MARIA This poem was recited by me at the occasion of the blessing of my marriage to Maria in May 2002. To understand the references, Maria's father is from Yorkshire in England and her mother is from Galicia in North Western Spain. In Galicia they make a strange brew called quiemada which is thought by some to have magical properties... The fingers of the hand Evolve from a primate's paw, So well designed to stroke, They're more often used to claw. We all turn into fighters For as we learn in life Peace is but the Promised Land. Our natural state is strife. We can't avoid our battles. We fight as best we can. It's the nature of the fighting That separates each man. Each battle causes damage And some of us get scarred. Those wounds that do not heal Turn impervious and hard. Hard will stiffen sinews. It will fleck a tongue with bile. But hard resists the joy Of a softening laugh or smile. I was such a fighter. I was battle-worn and sad. So much that I had seen Was ugly, cruel and bad. When you see the world as this A miracle's required To resurrect a spirit So cynical and tired. Then I first espied her. She had beauty to excess! A laugh to shiver spines - A Galician princess. What mystic Yorkshire root Was stirred in quiemada? What supernatural spice Was robbed from heaven's larder? What enchanting sorcery, What magic fairy-dust, Cast a spell to penetrate My battle-thickened crust? Now she stands beside me. My feet float off the ground. I view a panorama Of flowers all around. I feel lightness from below, See sunshine from above, My joy is now complete With the woman whom I love.