Here it is.
The red of the marked
Brain.  The fruit of the hollowed
Vein and the blood of the holy
Stream.  When will you waken?
Dry off its drowning veil?
All the years of steeping
Have never moved you near.
Once there was music
And once there was light
Now there is dusk and murk.
Now there is muffle and slight.
A wash in a glass are a sea
Of yesterdays and spent
Tomorrows.