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Burn down the gates of this Babylon,
with their wroughtly embroidered locks.
Burn down the palace of marble stone,
with its frescoed, terraced walls.
And burn the books, the scrolls, the plays.
Burn the poems, songs and myths.
Burn all that sings, shines, sways and sweeps
with the words of Venus' breasts.
Tear down this old, decripid place,
this haunting shadow, this sinister malice.
Bring down the ramparts, towers and guards
so devoted to protecting her life.
And let their shields splinter and break;
their swords crack with this schismed rift.
And the silver trumpets and golden bells
crack, fade, stumble and fall.
But let not this raised tabernacle,
this Holy of all Holies,
die in the wayside; die in the field.
No. Let it be, in its lasting fortitude,
the foundation for new.
Be the building blocks, the corner stones.
And etched in the founding stone:
I loved you first.