The prey of the mighty will be seke

of all things, noting in scattered form

the phantom gods who might contend

with the Masters in their own Houses

 

No gods on a day when the final wolves are loosed

upon the hot wet throats and haunch

 

No language left but this:

They have completed their watching

They have adjusted their own way

And there is only one silent contention

 

Listen to the howls from your rough hut

You will liberate, and you will contend