Winged lion, king-headed beast. His eyes are gods: distant, merciless, just. He is always smiling slightly, for he knows all things.
Note his long beard, square beard and curly. His voice, when he unlocks his throat, is kingly, kindly and incomprehensible. He tongues an ur-tongue, a regal jargon, an untranslatable, infectious wash of sound. His words are a tall tree in our ear. His blood is carried to hidden places. His wings are seven winds: the evil wind, the wild wind, the dust wind, the whirl wind, the four winds, the seven winds, the wind that conquers. He breathes plague and famine. His claws are drought and decay.
He is the giver of gifts. In his mighty steps grow sweet corn, golden wheat. He is forever moving, shoulders topless towers, back a broad highway, seven mile mouth sweetly smiling. He circles to the north and then to the south. He comes up from the desert and goes down to the sea. His piss is the fertile water.
From him come all our graces; from him all our woes. Before the fruitful garden he stands watch, jaws athwart the gates, a flaming sword.