Mankind placed before fiery gorges,
A drum roll, foreheads of dark warriors,
Steps through blood-fog; black iron resounds,
Despair, night in sad brains:
Here Eve's shadow, the hunt and red money.
Clouds through which light breaks, the Last Supper.
A gentle silence dwells in bread and wine
And they are gathered twelve in number.
At night under olive branches they scream in sleep.
Saint Thomas dips the hand into the stigmata.
© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt