Usurers of the phantom sleep
sold us their blessing and teaching,
and we are fish, there, in the deep,
indifferent to your preaching.
We lightly pawn our greatest good
to borrow liberty of loss,
we learned to eat the poisoned food,
not caring for the sign of Cross. And our talk is too phony, and our voice is not sound, we are lost, dear Anthony, but don’t want to be found. Show our pegasus of pride that kills the wretched ass – its haunting ghost, may both beget the mule who kneels humbly before the Holy Host.