The People Loved What They Had Loved Before

We did not worship at the shrine of tears; we knew not to believe, not to confess. And so, ahemming victors, to false cheers, we wrote off love, we gave a stern address to things that we disapproved of, things of yore. And the people loved what they had loved before. We did not build stone monuments to stand six hundred years and grow more strong and arch like bridges from the people to the Land beyond their reach. Instead, we played a march, pale Neros, sparking flames from door to door. And the people loved what they had loved before. We could not pipe of cheer, or even woe. We played a minor air of Ire (in E). The sheep chose to ignore us, even though, long destitute, we plied our songs for free. We wrote, rewrote and warbled one same score. And the people loved what they had loved before. At last outlandish wailing, we confess, ensued, because no listeners were left. We built a shrine to tears: our goddess less divine than man, and, like us, long bereft. We stooped to love too late, too Learned to whore. And the people loved what they had loved before.