The Saint

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When in the hell of self-created sufferings

Cruelly indecent pictures plague him –

No heart was ever so enchanted by lascivious prurience

Like his, and no heart so tormented

By God – he lifts gaunt hands,

Unredeemed, praying to heaven.

But, only agonizingly insatiable lust forms

His rutting, feverish prayer, its fervor

Surges there through mystical infinities.

And not so drunkenly the Evoe

Of Dionysus sounds, as if his shout

Of torment forces fulfillment in deadly,

Furiously slobbering ecstasy: Exaudi me, o Mary!

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