“All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor!” - Macbeth, Act 1, Sc. 3
Thane of Cawdor
The light is red now washes the walls,
his face—yellowed by a diseased liver—
ashen. The body dreams itself;
a man made new to root out
ill humour, plots forgotten.
In years to come there will be medicine
so strong it will mimic the disease itself.
But, for now, it’s all rock and lump
working hard math across his skin.