By Luis G. Dato
Mute, unmoved, your silence utters
Flames of prophesy,
Men, they vow, they swear and onward
Deathward, cease to be.
Men, who in a false believing,
Defied your stone.
Men who raised to you contumely,
Those and these have gone.
Faith! what blasphemies lie under,
Doubt, what certainty?
Mute, unmoved your silence utters
Words of prophecy.
Once your towering temples hearkened
Heathens through your altared turrets
Saw of promises.
And your forms to shreds now sundered,
And your shell-torn mould,
Reeking hands of high commanders,
Tore for those of gold.
Infidel, profane, or prophet,
They in you could see,
Time’s eternal faith in doubting,
Doubt in prophecy.
For the spirit of the Deity
Ever roams unknown
And our creeds when death has summoned
Turn, like you, to stone.