I stand here, a hall where ancient passions lay

long-dead, and buried under stones

stacked high with skill, that proudly show their age

as if to say: here still we sleep,

entombed on all four flanks by aging rock

in unmarked graves; good men who lived

and loved within these walls long ago,

now dead, but here in heart remain.

I hear the heart’s remains. 

they rest beneath the floor, yet deeper still

than those who lived and died a fleeting life;

my ear upon the ground, the beating

sound of blood I hear, not mortal, but divine;

upon my skin the cobblestones feel warm, although

I know that no heart here remains alive

within these walls—the hall of this dead god.