Arthritic fingers of the olive trees 
Accuse the sun of ancient injuries. 

The shallows harden to an ochre crust 
While bony cattle huddle in the dust. 

The wretched one who tears his flesh resumes 
His bellowing from somewhere in the tombs. 

The sky assumes a tyrant's glare. Despite 
Our lust for rain, we fear the eerie night. 

Dogs whimper softly. An unearthly dawn 
Ignites some whispers that the dead will yawn. 

We spot a boat; pigs and children squeal. 
We bicker over whether it is real. 

A striking figure stands beside the sail. 
His patchwork crew appears a little pale. 

A crowd surrounds him as he steps ashore 
But no one fears his coming anymore. 

With all the noise, I cannot be exact 
About what happened when the wretch attacked. 

The visitor, from what my friends could tell, 
Dazed his attacker with some kind of spell. 

After berating unseen demons, he 
Commanded them to set their hostage free. 

We trembled as he spoke. He made a sign 
And charged the demons to inhabit swine. 

Immediately nearby pigs began 
To froth and moan; the wretch became a man. 

The pigs escaped; no one could make them stop. 
The swineherds muttered, but then let it drop.