The god is gone. His cave is bare. In shadow from the sun The clotted bats hang from the roof. Below, the scorpions run And pious folk no longer come Lest evil should be done. Ruins of flowers on the floor Bear imprints of his feet. They point through the door into The many-miraged heat. His voice was heard. His fragrance kept This prisoned air once sweet. His voice was heard: It told his tribe To leave this sun-cursed hill. They went, and left his dwelling here. They went; it was his will. Who piled these stones knows when he comes And where he stays until.