And moulding there His image. Age by age
The clay wars with His fingers and pleads hard
For its old, heavy, dull, and shapeless ease;
At times it crumbles and a nation falls,
Now moves awry and demon hordes are born.
[The peasants cross themselves.
But leave me now, for I am desolate,
I hear a whisper from beyond the thunder.
[She steps down from the oratory door.