Deep wet valley, where shadow shrinks now from star spit, shimmer red, black, deep black claret—men’s blood! Crack! Crunch! Shouts now still, now we circle on the carrion of dead kings, priests and husbands, where jackals mix, our eyes press upon the legions of the deceased, and above us the mist shrouds now the silent mountain’s monument to men dead for crown and country. Among us the sharp-beaked black ones prune even rings from fingers, while we prise hearts from unsprung traps of chests. Day breaks inside the valley; chill dark despair, the dry howls of land animals, gas, mist and something other—an aether of an abject sentiment akin to a prayer said once then never redone—rises unambiguously from the killing grounds. When we all are filled with flesh; bundles, strips and loops of it, we flap our wings and rise from eyeless mounds of lost gamesmen, we spill out into the sweet-smelling air, and down below ghosts stumble on the stiles of ladders leading outward from the valley.