A Spanish Spring

There's an armada of us,
muse and matter and toil
bottled,  
made El Dorado,  
kicks the back of the throat,  
makes a busy man lonely
and an idle one accompanied,
and I wouldn't mind
if the ocean weren't so vast,
if I weren't so departed now
from us,  
from then
as if leeches have arrested it
starved from the body,
made a bartering tool
but the truth is you were feverish
and I was frenzied
and no paella will make this better
when you're intolerant,
as am I.