Each vulture has its ugly profile As if abruptly God did not feather Its face. Yet its pure flight with enflamed Eyes that see the dead as they leave The body, it perches among the oak Under the hilly peaks. His featherless face like a hanging Veil from the face of the sky. There among the fields of death, Wings like a sudden dark cuirass He cruises like an ancient idol Wrapped in air, His talons like daggers into The sacrificed. He goes deep into the sky enveloped In splendid light watching souls Leave the enormous earth.