In a world which makes impossible sense

Toils a boy,

Among cabbage-headed brutes,

With turnips for brains and pea-porridge for souls.

At the edge of Christendom, bristling with impassable defense,

Wonders a clockwork mind,

Beyond the learned abbey walls,

A mere speck viewed from the priory above.

In the fields of Anglesey, beyond hovels dense

Roils an improbable mind,

Among the sheep-eyed sots—

Barefoot, muddy-kneed and Stigma-handed.

Among the far folds of Christendom,

Was cast the key—

To a demon-risen world, hunted by fallen angels,

Under the thirteen-hued Mirror to God’s Eye.

-Ranted Sylvia to The Question, at Nabbingaol gallows, In the Year of Our Lord, 2012, under the Ember Moon