all gold and blue and brilliant crimson-green.
You should have seen him blossom in the air
an immolation of his fetid spleen.
Such pop and sizzle as he sagged upon the stake.
His love of God had stained his heart to make
him but the victim of his own abuse.
We'll gather up the ashes of his toil
and let the plow-boy turn him to the soil.
him contrary to peace.
The day was hot with little breeze to waft
the drifting incense of his purity
to God, and so his stench clung to the Earth.