There are no seven diamond seals to close
the eternal gates of God's great paradise
it has no tempting charms, no beckoning glow
and to the people remains unrecognized.

a doorway in a wall long since forsaken
a mass of stones and moss and nothing more.
nearby, a beggar, keys hung from his cincture,
his mien that of an unasked visitor.

knights and men at arms ride past accompanied
by the trumpet's howl and silver's clatter.
not a glance is spared the old gate keep,
the glorious apostle Saint Peter.

They all dream «There, beside God's sepulchre
the gates of Heaven will open for our sake
and at the foot of ancient Mount Thabor,
the long awaited promised hour break.»

and so the monster slowly passes by;
the horn lets out a clear and ringing wail;
and apostle peter in his tattered rags
as if a beggar, wretched, sad and pale.