They have sent the old gods from the city: on the temple step, the people gather to cry for revenge, to chant their hymns and to praise the god of the lance. They have banished the gods and the half-gods from the city streets, they have turned from the god of the cross roads, the god of the hearth, the god of the sunken well and the fountain source, they have chosen one, to him only they offer paean and chant. Though but one god is left in the city, shall we turn to his treacherous feet, though but one god is left in the city, can he lure us with his clamour and shout, can he snare our hearts in his net, can he blind us with the light of his lance? Could he snare our spirit and flesh, he would cast it in irons to lie and rot in the sodden grass, and we know his glamour is dross, we know him in a blackened light, and his beauty withered and spent beside one young life that is lost. |