Peter grows his glories bright
Beneath blue skies, a fortress framed
Along the winding river side
Black barn, black womb, black vein
Peter sows his seed so well
That pretty maids do flock and swoon
He’ll play for them his poet’s flute
Black words, black music, black moon
Peter throws them out by dusk
His lust no more for beauty’s bloom
Enshroud he will in solitude
Black scar, black night, black tomb