Now we walk the crooked road, to seek out the saints of old, cold as cod, who plough their foaming furrow with feather and with ink, and light their candles in the wave.
We walk the crooked road to an island where, eyes like an axe, mean as an eel, the salty lether-lipped Vikings spill ashore to burn green rushy roofs in the land of the milky monk…
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