In the seventh gyre of the Age of the Shielded Immaltant:
The eighth man laid upon a rough table is the largest object
Within a single niche lighted by wax candles carved
With a red crescent moon and a map of midwinter stars.
This spare form is dressed in ragged and torn cloth,
The raiment of those that are slain by their own hand.
His banner is a yellow sycamore leaf torn and caught under
The wooden haft of a knife sunk deep in a gentle heart.
His feet point towards a door low in the western wall,
Towards a destination that must be reached by discovery.
His head rests on clay bricks stamped with the edge
His legacy bequeaths the stilled heat and light of day,
In four mismatched jars, to forty-four thousand children.