The Temple

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The temple lay in ruins. Three nights, three days already Had the shrine of the Spirit Lain leveled and dismantled. The flames had ripped across the colonnade, Biting tongues bitter with fury and hate. Lightning struck, tearing at the roof With long, thin fingers cruel and rough. Now, the temple lay in ruins. A hole had opened in the charred wall, A wound in the side of the fallen shepherd. Spilled wine lay veined across the shattered marble, The shed blood of the victim of the sacrifice. Over fragments of columns and rubble of walls Hung torn and tattered curtains, Burial cloths for the broken wonder. Yes, the temple lay in ruins. Yet a soft rain caressed the fractured wreck, Soothing ointment for the thousand wounds. The doves, liberated from a sacrificial fate, Still lingered faithfully by, Embracing the one that gave them life. And in silence the loving builder lookest on, Awaiting the hour to restore his fallen child to life.





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