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