The Priest: I.
I was truly becoming a holy man when It came. I had read the blessed book of our ancient dialects. I had been bathed in the odor of an angelic choir. I had nuzzled every night with the fleece a loving flock.
Then It arrived with Its wicked smile and tender eyes. It had hair that swirled out of smoky taverns and the kind of spirit that quivers and terrifies. Was this the creature I had been warned about?
The Fiend! It stirred me with Its creamy sweets and wrinkled red meats. I cowered under my desk as bloody flags of war were raised in the rectory. At night, the juices of Our Savior would drip from my lips and pool in a sad puddle upon my chair.
It was the hero of sorrowful laments.
It was the succulent fruit of sin,
the ripe gem of every nasty innocence.
Like a magnificent work of art,
I could not resist its aura.
It was then I became ensnared.
I prayed for hours in our ancient tongue.
I wailed for forgiveness from the Holy Mother.
I confessed to myself with horror in my heart
and laid my fate at Hell’s door.