From fallow harvests thresh-field,
He enmeshed, watchful,
The hapless and unshaven souls
About sackful stench of village strife,
In procession to the subterranean shrine.

Their mouth-roofs shipwreck on Bougarabou drums,
Cluttered with subdued nightfall in the shadow Teak,
Blabbering solicitous-cries unheard,
Like a mad madam ploughing her teeth.

The watchman
Pointing in dismal flare,
How fondness night hides the gleaming sun,
While subtle eventide of tormented souls
Stagger, groan and stagger on shrunken metal hope;
From humiliating traverse to the burning cave,
Holden in frontage of the bleeding moon,
Whose bovine backs stabbed by the spirits-bearer,
Denied their priest and persecutor.