The known hawks pounce by and blame me,
They nag of my faith and my books.
The final scud of light seizes back for me,
It hurls my rendering after the break
And proper as any on the shadowed untamed,
It charms me to the haze and the twilight.
I listened to their actions flouting the sticking of the
furniture,
By the swayed half-door of the restroom,
I saw them floppy and pathetic,
And gave fresh water and filled buckets for their stinking
body and tired feet,
And gave them a shelter that attached from my own,
And gave them clean clothes,
And keeping in mind faultlessly well their spinning eyes and
their ineptness,
And bear in mind laying layers on their face and eyes;
I had them eat next to me at the temple, my pious fire still
lit in the centre.
They settled with me a month before they were convalesced
and converted.
Conversion is a highly paying religion.
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