EDIT

Only ageless quiet attends our altars
shrouds our days in motes and in shade, a half-life
lived in half-light. Even our fire can pale in
twilight and gray or
starve in empty temples though instinct never
Wavers, never dulls in the pitch - the God Who
Slumbers in the Waters still sleeps; the sun still
sets in our brother's
bloodless breast. We follow the endless arc to
guard the sun, descend to lustrate in gold-tipped
shrines where chanted litanies hailed the dawn. But
no one reveres us

now: a younger god has transfixed man's needy
eye. Unsung, we leave empyreal climes, slough the
night off (like a barnacle fastened to the
hip of the sun) to
pace abandoned Houses. In temple dusk we
wonder, will we ever again be met at
dawn? Be praised, our manifold Names half-sung? Will
anyone love us?