The Tunes Were Lost

The names are all we have left,
And we don’t know what they mean.

From the high shrine, a drenched crow
Cawed in the rush of a storm.

The soaked roots launched life up stems.
The long drought groaned and was done.

It’s a weird sight, spears of grass,
Hosts of green knights on the march,

Come to hack the caulked, carved stones
Of the faith all years stayed dry.

Vines sculpt new forms, wood and bone.
Birds shrill terms not tunes at all.

Moss chews the ears of the god
Who craved hymns and hymns on hymns.