Opus 1683: A Kyrielle for no Christian God

Phillip A. Ellis

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.

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