Mute in the arc-light stands time with a whip; their loins cringe, on blunted paws. His hands are twisted in their manes. They circle at his commands. Meek and magnificent from cages, the gelded lions fawn on our intent, fearing punishment. They rushing in darkness were eyed like the sun with rage; living sulphur, a fire. But love stripped Samson's hair. We beat them to our cage.