If by fire
Of sooty coal th’ empiric alchymist
Can turn, or holds it possible to turn,
Metals of drossiest ore to perfect gold.
—Milton, Paradise Lost
L E A D
Pentatonic maelstroms finishing the holy chore—
Galgalimic vagabonds of the Magdalenic corps.
Angels pave the way for us; I thank God for this life—
The Guardian of this thresh holds my days in strife.
Blood-morphed creature in the holy sky—
Headless black raven gives a bleak reply.
Dearest Kali Yuga, Sovereign of the night-land marsh—
You open up my Heart Box, but the killings are so harsh.
Archangel and a purring Holy Flower—
Of his own children Saturn must devour.
Coffin dweller, Sat-urn-ine charmer—
Dig up the bones of the Divine Farmer.