Little saint, you’re on your way
—not up the hill, evading—
all for fear you’ll end up late;
we know all-wise you’re praying.

Bishop grand, you need a sign
—no native voice sufficing—
so native land chill’d as ice
gifts roses all-delighting.

Well, what mystery unfolds
—no ordinary roses—
They speak as European,
so that your eyes can see them.

In case you missed the meaning
—your nose upheld, demeaning—
the Virgin’s face shines via
agave native fibres.