Ah, Pity!
Ah! Pity, lying curled as wayfarers lost, in some unguarded corner; ah! Pity, lying in the heart, shunted and limping as a mongrel dog once someone's shadow of devotion.
Bring wine for Pity and crusts from bread baked in the richest ovens! Light candles for Pity, perhaps she will be tempted to believe in something more than her abandonment. Strong men throw coins to her and she has seen their garlands laid against the stones where they had said she died. Rituals are read to her, tabernacles built by those who say that they remember. Incense and perpetual pilgrimage burn the heart of Pity the while she lies there mute and friendless.
When will they truly find her whose chariots raise the dust, whose potions predict a knowledge of Infinity— the depth, and width, and tether of the sea, the earth, the air!
Bring wine for Pity and watch you spill no drop, for it is Blood . . .