An Auto-da-fé

I have nothing to recant, I am just the decanter. You, the just destroyer, have in faith become the role, recalling for those gathered the noble fallen with a prayer to his-grace-above-fire, (“Turn me, I’m burnt on that side”) St. Lawrence. Well done, I applaud. And you: Well executed. This is it. Not much else to await when our fates touch: I’ve nowhere to be but eternity, you’ve nothing to catch but the thatch. Dry on dry, we keep our wits about us