On a damp and melancholy evening
I tore from His castle,
from the holes in my soul,
to go and dance at Lucifer's.
Enough with this pitted cloth!
Can't it be ripped to pieces once and for all?
Let freedom and license reign!
Yet the warming light of an ember crept in nonetheless,
and the sadness of my vision confronted me:
For I must admit
I am not just the cloth,
I am the moth
consuming myself with my choice of self
a thousand and one narcissisms.
So the smouldering wick was not quenched,
a repentant breeze blew in the window,
the intercessory breath of a saint upon the coals,
and the gentle flame burned bright once again
from upon my head
to within my heart
and this moth of a soul obeyed the flickering
closer, led ever closer
and then embraced, without being consumed.
And I looked upon my wedding garment anew,
washed white once again in the blood
with warp and weave restored,
and I was home with my Beloved once again,
my back blessedly turned on the satyr's piping.