Panis angelicus
fit panis hominum
Dat panis coelicus
figuris terminum
O res mirabilis
Manducat Dominum
Pauper, servus et humilis
And just then, listening to his sweet soprano and the screams of the people dying—just for a moment, the world flashes terrifyingly golden.
It is happening.
Isabella pulls me across the street and around the bend, so fast I nearly lose my pattens as we hurry back to the safety of the brothel.
“Creation,” Mémé tells us that night, “is always violent: look at how babies come into the world, how plants rip their seed-shells apart, how birds hack and bite their way free of the egg. Is it no wonder that the mobs tear apart the bakeries, that they burn houses regardless of who might be within? They, too, are trying to wrest power from those who have it. They
