At heaven’s call, I fled the land
To feed on refuse of the sea,
Until in womb of death my prayer
Made incense of the putrid air.
Sadistic now, this leafless sun
On shelter of a shriveled twig,
And picaresque my fits to God
About the nature of a worm.
Damn the long-enduring grace
That turns my prophecy to rants,
And seats me on a hill to watch
The earth complete its somersault.
