Soul, scorning all measure

Singer of heresy, martyr

longing for the whip’s lashing.

Soul, you greet your assassin

like a butterfly fresh from its chrysalis,

nor can you brook this offense:

that wizards are not still burnt.

Smoking under your hair shirt

like a resinate high wick

screeching heretic

sister of Savonarola.

Soul,

You deserve the stake!