An ashen field falls over the horizon,
Spotted by cloves — pink and white,
Spotted by martyr cries and feckless rites;
Cathedrals, now but wooden ribs in the desolate night.

Cometh by haste the bounty men —
Heads of natives swing from hips,
Gold and toil lost to their smite;
The joining flesh of humanity rips.

The dawn, now new,
Left only heathen land.
God shackled to Heaven’s gate,
Man now to serve the capital hand.