The living Land of Gold lays desiccated,
Wept dry to dust for thee — Along its West-most
Rim, thy last sunset waned like a ghost —

Who carved thy sacred stone? Who decorated
Thy mortal tomb?  Who but for thee was lost?
Who worshipped thee above all Heaven’s host?

I eyed dismayed thy cold bones desecrated —
Mayhap the Sun reborn shall raise thy spirit,
As we raised up thy tomb to look upon it.