Brittle leaves fall upon a
   hard winter's ground.
Worthless bows to a dying shrine.

How long has it been
  since you risked yourself?
Not your body, no you use your
  beauty as a defense.

But that treasure you've locked away;
  your soul lies sleeping in a
tomb, of glass and honeysuckle.

The cathedral is empty, the worshippers
  fled to the countryside, and the monks
sing now only when the hours call them hence.

When will the light come back?
  Or will I forever keep vigil
at an empty altar?