Translated from the Welsh of Emyr Lewis. Candles are stars in the people’s hands: a bit of tallow for the Madonna. Each one’s a gift, a silent prayer, keeping a secret in holy honor. The saints repose who served their Lord in mystic grace of wood and gloss. Their eyes partake of radiance while they whisper "Sancta Simplicitas" Here God descends through ceiling cracks as a moth heads for flame: to fly playing hide and seek with a hot blade, living in peril, not knowing why.