The severity of the black and white chiaroscuro in the cave's entrance hall indicates not death but life in all its strange new forms flourishing almost out of sight; I look at a blind white salamander and I see the Madonna washing her laughing babe in that clear core-fed spring while the fish flashing like lantern-lit limbs nibble at his fleshy toes; her hair with its fulsome duskiness and streaks of steel cascades like the steady waterfall barely visible in a nook to the southeast; her eyes seem to brim with tears as she suffers physically a premonition: all the world's sins stretching fore and aft neath an empty grey sky as the bodies pile up revenant and dust alike; how bare the mind seems of true comprehension as she looks with half her vision upon these fresh wonders just born.