The splotches on the feline’s coat

As much names

As Names of the Father

A thought which admits no reduction

A history by weaving

Blocks of time, absences as eros

Traces as features, logics

Still animal, feathered

biped

On our way to divinization

It is the soil which bears this fruit

An underground constellation

A decaying crystal, a micro-scope

It was the Jesuits who first came, who

Wanted to look and force our confession

Their deceitful appearance did not defame, 

And were born from them

A horror unnamed

It is the beautiful who remain

The beautiful who are our gods

The beautiful who do not lie

For ever and ever