The sisters are wailing, quite beside themselves with something new.
The pale Christ, lanky as a long distance runner, seems half-amazed
at what he has done. Sitting up, the awakened one sees the immobile
face of the woman he mounted like a maniac, his body erupting in fever,
in abcess, for want of her, and is indifferent. He can hear murmurs,
jeers and coarse laughter on the roads and in the homes, the crush
of a slapped face, the unhinged bells, the dangerous, sullen gaps.
Suddenly visible are the closed faces of the doomers and the open faces
of the doomed, although he is in a dark room, his tongue black and stiff.
Fanatics who worship the sun sever their arms as offerings
to help it rise; it rises, and the disinterred one, for a time, continues,
dancing by himself like a horse with its screaming, high-tossing head.