At the Iglesia de Sacromonte

a death's head

from which falls away

a black soutane,

he conducts me

and the three withered nuns

from Pamplona

through his catacomb of horrors.

Complete with hairy lip

and decaying stumps of tooth,

the three withered nuns

from Pamplona

Kiss relic and bloodstained bars

asking for intercession.

As they kneel and mumble

I hear reverberate

in cave and cell

the running bulls of Pamplona.