The doves are slain, the Temple falls,
the god reclaims his islands.
The sea that bore her comes again,
to wash the blood from her sands.
And we are thrown upon the waves,
in exile of my making,
While o’er our city, in the deep,
the foaming tide is breaking.
Yet I recall her gleaming: in dreaming, in singing,
And ever will I mourn her, still yearning, unburning.

Ask me anything