Sand from the Urns

Green as mould is the house of oblivion.

Before each of the blowing gates your beheaded minstrel turns blue.

For you he beats his drum made of moss and of harsh pubic hair;

With a festering toe in the sand he traces your eyebrow.

Longer he draws it than ever it was, and the red of your lip.

You fill up the urns here and nourish your heart.