The Seasons of the Ungodly

The skull of Saint David

stood with the priests

through the four seasons.

There, at the entrance, I opened

the door for them to descend.

Wrapped in purple cloth,

it entered the temple of debauchery.

Rulers posed for photographs with it,

in front of the fountain.

It had no hair—

I did not approach to smell it.

That bone,

carried around by the cassocked.

Beside the pool,

they pose bare-chested— future corpses.

The devout wealthy

remain untouched by the judgment.

But when the hour of death tolls,

the great judge

will polish their fine heads like skulls,

and among so many bones

he will not distinguish

master from slave:

“Hail, David!

Your sanctity

reminded us

of the justice

of death!”