Non nobis, DomineThe knights are vanquished: buried in the mud. The clarions are overwhelmed in the avalanche of cannon. No gleaming armour, no jewelled scabbards, no pennants or ideals, only grimy rags on young men shallow as graves in tournaments of despair. The knights are vanquished, the poets reduced to calculation. No lady weaves enchantments but by dishonour: from their looms, a linen shroud, already rumpled, for courtly passions. The rest are followers, moving with the camp, slopping through sewage for a ring, a plume, to serve as advertisement for their debasement. Do not look at them, lest they catch sight, and not recognise you. The knights are vanquished: their women are sunk in harlotry. Oh, do not look at them, but turn your face to me.