As though an angel had been
dispatched into hell
At this moment, the night sky within the body turns black, and a star of ill omen slowly rises. Its radiant tail touches those pale white and faintly red fingers, bringing death to a Cupid already permeated by infection. To undergo the obscure trial of the five senses, let us recognize one another upon the same cross, stripped of the covering of fabric, until a fresh trace of sin flows from the incision. Let these marks become the proof by which we recognize each other. You say: Yes, the angel looks just like me—all bones, delicate and frail. It is desire. It is silence. It is the knight who takes up the sword at last. It is the fire of pain burning beneath his feet.