The beasts, they say, a graveyard make,
A place they go to die,
When deep they feel the staunchless ache
Of life that passes by
On paths their feet will not have trod
Through days they will not see.
Much worse, the ache of dying god
For no one hears their plea
There in the midst of holy strife
Immortals draw their breath
And in the mysteries of life
There is none teaches death.
The angels fear, or so they say,
To walk where fools rush in.
Among the dying godlets play,
And dance upon a pin,
Triumphant priests, whose sacrifice
To honor their god’s name
With hidden guilt more souls entice
And cover them with shame.
In temples built by mortal men
Whose walkways are blood-paved
Unheeding choirs sing last amen
And no one there is saved.
Between the cells of ancient gods,
Stone membranes line the way
Truth shown now, all the crowd applauds:
The gods are made of clay.