Adam, a brown old vulture in the rain,
Shivered below his windwhipped olive-trees;
Huddling sharp chin on scarred and scraggy knees,
He moaned and mumbled to his darkening brain;
„He was the grandest of them all – was Cain!
A lion laired in the hills, that none could tire;
Swift as a stag; a stallion of the plain,
Hungry and fierce with deeds of huge desire.“
Grimly he thought of Abel, soft and fair –
A lover with disaster in his face,
And scarlet blossoms twisted in bright hair.
„Afraid to fight; was murder more disgrace?...
God always hated Cain“ ... He bowed his head –
The gaunt old man whose lovely sons were dead.