This is the cup the devil made
to hold the lifeblood of a god,
the cup from which the phantoms sprang
that followed where his story trod.
They wrought it in the Underworld –
an older world, a younger day –
before the God of Gods was born
and angels stole the book away.
They filled it with eternal life,
undying death, unsleeping dreams;
its draught unsealed the shadow-gate
between the World that Is, and Seems.
This is the cup to loose the soul,
the blood that sets the legends free,
and we who dare to drink must taste,
each in ourselves, eternity.