Body rippling with savage strength

Beasts dancing crazily to the rhythm

Of a palpitating heart

Intermingled with the turmoil of the drums

There he is lying

By that sightless dummy

Even in death resisting,

Stubbornly refusing to kiss

The feet of your hand-crafted almighty

Your strength-sipping dance,

Your scarlet-flaming regalia,

The crooked pick-axe,

The threatening strike of the poised cobra

And the descending dagger

Do not exist

They’ll never bend his iron-clad will

Except towards the direction of his Jehovah