That corona garland, worn by few
may be brandished by those untainted

Who by some great deed, in memory sewn
thus impressed an angry god,
were then received as canon

Years have passed, and those who are left
to right the skewed halos, burnished above the pews

Grow fewer, and fainter, air deprived inside
the stone facade, that must persist

The brocade of landscape, pastoral, longed for green,
reminiscent: but drying to brown outside

Is burning beyond those sainted gates, and
no one is listening to Men that guard

The dry parchments, those falling shards
of contrived fate.