There is no hope for blood or wine
on altars grown cold, fallow, sere,
there is no hope for incense fine,
no more the prayers to a god dear.
There is no sacrifice, no smoke
rising forth from rituals dear,
there are no fires, no flames to stoke,
no more the prayers to a god dear.
The temple's still with stricken tongue,
never libations drown the tear,
never the hymn once more is sung,
no more the prayers to a god dear.
No more the celebrants in white,
no more processions drawing near,
no more the censers, blinding light,
no more the prayers to a god dear.
No more worshippers crowned with bay,
no more idols garbed in silk sheer,
no more first fruits, herds, crops or hay,
no more the prayers to a god dear.
Broken the column, smitten stone,
shattered the temple's awe and fear,
looted are idols, prices grown,
no more the prayers to a god dear.