April gnaws the stone arch, breeding cold light out of desolation,
Crushed paintings knead prayers and ashes together,
Stirring the ruined dome with gloomy rain.
Cold fog wraps silence, covering it with dust of oblivion,
Letting emptiness linger among broken columns.
Wind sweeps abruptly, piercing the hollow door,
Halts beneath the crumbling colonnade,
Then drifts over faded saints,
Glides through the void, and vanishes in an instant.
The roots that cling to stone crevices,
The shadows sprung from ruined walls—
O Son of Man,
You cannot discern, nor can you hear,
But a sight of shattered holiness.
Where the scorching sun beats down,
The altar gives no shelter, scriptures no echo,
No sound of salvation deep within the stone heart.
Only
Lurks shadow under the fallen arch,
Come into this cold shadow,
And I will show you something
That is neither the crawling phantom at dawn,
Nor the rising soul at dusk.
I will let you see
In a handful of cold earth
The abandoned piety.
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