Consecrate the ceremony.
 Or bear the oblation.
 See you this maiden whore.
 With whom you wish to copulate.
 You see her beauty - I see the skull beneath the skin.
 I smell the fragrant dusk of graves and the yellowed linen.
 "Calamity of fate!" - the portents cry.
 Until all is but an elysian field (beset with glistening urns).
 A desolate, echoing cinerarium rattled by the winter wind.
 Merciless, I raise the cup.
 I beseech it be filled.
 I am the celebrant in this rite of shrouds.
 We abscond to ashes and dust occludes us all.