Prayers sung in tongues forgotten,
Clerestories bare forgotten saints.
Weathered cathedral knells laments,
Blackened — a deathly taint.

But when the night desolate,
When no man wanders beyond the forest trees,
A woman of stars begins to blaze;
The bells start to ring.

The cathedral now an orchestra;
The cadavers now awake.
The star woman descends from the void,
The once dead climb from dying brake.

Her being graces the ground;
The ghosts follow her presence.
A waltz with her children begins —
The cathedral echoes psalms with reverence.

An ashen field falls over the horizon,
Spotted by cloves — pink and white,
Spotted by martyr cries and feckless rites;
Cathedrals, now but wooden ribs in the desolate night.

Cometh by haste the bounty men —
Heads of natives swing from hips,
Gold and toil lost to their smite;
The joining flesh of humanity rips.

The dawn, now new,
Left only heathen land.
God shackled to Heaven’s gate,
Man now to serve the capital hand.

Upon the supernal court,
Love, facing Death,
Spits obscenities and cries:

“Thou shalt be forsaken for thy thefts;
I see thou art but a thief,
Taketh life and giveth grief.
Beauty thou knowest not,
Turning wood to ash, and man to rot.”

Death, as cold as night,
Responds soft, a quiet croon:

“I am not a thief, for when it's dark,
The sun is not taken, but changed for the moon.”