Take off the business suit, the old school tie,

the gown, the cap, drop the reviews, awards,

certificates, stand naked in you sty,

a little carnivore, clothed in dried turds.

The snot that slowly fills our passages

seeps up from hollows  where the dead beasts lie;

dumb stamping dances spell our messages,

we only know what makes our arrows fly.

Lost in the wood, we sometimes glimpse the sky

between the branches, and the words drop down

we cannot hear, the alien voices high

and hard, singing salvation, grace, life, dawn.

Like wolves, we lift our snouts; Blood, blood, we cry,

the blood that bought us so we need not die.

D. Gwenallt Jones, Sin.