You came in by shattering the wall, new weapons on Your shoulders: Our Lady of Venom and large bowls of young
bull's blood.
My two hand are cold, I said to You,
and that's just fever that warms me.
If it keeps snowing all winter,
I shall crawl on my knees under the skies. I feed on
Your works
as a wolf feeds on the jugular vein.

I shall create the world as You wanted it:
with indistinct flavors on guard in mandolins. With heavy
grass-beds harbouring legions of bridegrooms.
With flames and bitter preserves.
I shall build the world on musical sounds that befog
one's body and wear out one's soul. Touched by a flow
of brown butterflies.

A fleeting thought stuns me: am I
Your creatures' keeper and know it not?