Psalm A
A dirge of poetchilde
Our Chief the great fireball in the sky—
Our Lady our Pause with her silvery glow—
Our God of War and our Goddess of Love—
Our Message Runner—our Majestic Overseer—
And the Harbinger of Fate most distant and austere—
The gestation of our throb and pain—
O, our one-time Gods, do your shades yet linger?
Do your stony figures yet hold one last wither of life?
If we followed the track of your ruin, would we weep?
We stared at your wreckage then poppled,
Liege lutes to sound sacred stories.
Lost we our Gods.
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