Did I hear you say the rocks
Have all been blasted?
And how about such impatient
Waters that must rush from their
Bowels?

We dance to the rough tunes
Of desolate death, here in this
Arid homestead. Gently, we shall
Commence the rituals for the
Invitation of the wind, now the
Sun has quenched his own fire.

The rocks knew the fate of silence
And broke it on the spine of time.
The cocks’ crow was muted by
The strength of darkness, and elegy
Of the rocks was sung by maggots
Beneath the moss-ridden vaults of
An alcoholic square.

Floods will quicken their steps
Towards the doorposts of the clergy,
Who chastises weak flames of candles
That burn wax in vainglorious stupor.