Mankind placed before fiery gorges,

A drum roll, dark warriors’ foreheads,

Steps through blood-fog; black iron resounds,

Despair, night in sad brains:

Here Eve’s shadow, hunt and red money.

Clouds, through which light breaks, the Last Supper.

A gentle silence dwells in bread and wine

And those are gathered twelve in number.

At night they scream in sleep under olive branches.

Saint Thomas dips the hand into the stigmata.