Death Laid Its Eggs In The Wound

The Night Below. We Two. Crystal Of Pain. You Wept Over Great Distances. My Ache Was A Clutch Of Agonies Over Your Sickly Heart Of Sand.

Seville Is A Tower Full Of Fine Archers.... Under The Arch Of The Sky, Across The Clear Plain, She Shoots The Constant Arrow Of Her River.

What Matters Most Has An Ultimate Metallic Quality Of Death. The Chasuble And The Wagon Wheel, The Razor And The Prickly Beards Of Shepherds, The Bare Moon, A Fly, Humid Cupboards, Rubble Piles, The Images Of Saints Covered In Lace, Quicklime, And The Wounding Edges Of The Rooflines And Watchtowers.

A Dead Man In Spain Is More Alive Than A Dead Man Anywhere In The World.

Only Mystery Allows Us To Live, Only Mystery.