Two bowls of unmixed wine he tips on the ground and two of fresh milk, two more of hallowed blood, then scatters crimson flowers with this prayer: “Hail, my blessed father, hail again! I salute your ashes, your spirit and your shade—my father I rescued once, but all for nothing. Not with you 100 would it be my fate to search for Italy’s shores and destined fields and, whatever it may be, the Italian river Tiber.”
