O you obscure, you once-known,
venerated in some small town
where your fingerbone rests
in a tarnished silver box
behind a screen in a dusty church
that smells of old beeswax and must–
What did you do to merit dismemberment,
the naming of this provincial shrine?
Did you cure a child? Make some rain?
Were you martyred by an ignorant prince?
Or did you, perhaps, now and then
arise from your cave when the moon was dim
and fly over the sleeping houses,
singing an incomprehensible hymn?