Seraphs stalk us, sleek and hungry, sublime.
From our loneliness they cut rainstorms out
of our shadows. Blood scent becomes nighttime,
we are dusk’s bad weather. With tusk, with snout,
with sneer they hunt, the burning ones, bastards.
From our loneliness a stone bridge is built
for them to cross. They burned down our orchards,
slaughtered all our wooly-down lambs and slit
the throat of Babieca, El Cid’s white horse
from green Saragossa, blue wind, red sky.
From our loneliness they shall mine quartz
and tin and star dust and craft a blade, source
of their will—-for this is how we shall die;
honed by the moon, they shall cut out our hearts.
