Proceeding, as he likes to think his travels
do; id est, his rambles have some goal,
the Padre finds the tawny port unravels
the ruby shrouds competing for his soul.
His dreams, hued lately anthracitic coal,
grow peaceful, lighter, take on tones of dove
and reaffirm his faith in human love.
His glass goes dry, and dryness takes the glee
he's felt away. His prayer wends above,
"What Higher Good requires a refugee?"