It is the Pope, the veritable white Polish Pope,
The Pope who has been a poet, the published Pope,
He who kisses the soil, and accordingly

Worships a Black Virgin, now like a Christ-child
He has re-arrived, in a cradle, a deep wicker,
And it has a glow of dayspring gold, an aura,

As though he were frying delighted in pure oil:
He was vibrating gold and this was his atmosphere,
And I? I was tending him

Like a secret ornament ... even
Such a being must change nappies
But they were scalding-hot, and I

Could not touch them. I looked closer,
I saw it was not piss had made them heavy –
They were woven gold, gold spun and braided.

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