Mankind

Face to face with the fire-abyss,

thundering hooves, the doomed brows of warriors,

across the blood-fog bootsteps echo, the iron death knells,

surrender, black in blue brains:

here Eve’s cloud, in pursuit, the passing over and bleeding coins.

Light breaks through the malignancy, his last meal.

A swelling silence dwells in bread and wine,

and the twelve are cleaved.

All night they wail in their dreams beneath the olive branches.

Saint Thomas plunges his hand into the heart of the wound.