The vagaries of pomp,

as befitting a man…

 power corrupts him totally.

So then, prepare a table before me

in the presence of mine enemies.

But do I give myself to fortune,

which has not will

nor purpose?

My own will has been a weak support.

Are “Truth” and “the Good”, transient;

cast off?

I say now this is truth:

the unending Holy See of time and space,

the darkness dance of the heavens

whirling unchecked,

eons after man has slept.

Deny it then:

we are supplicant before the reliquary void.