O sacred grotto of ruin,
surely once whispered in heat,
now banquet-hall for larvae,
your silks undone to pulp.

How odious your collapse,
a chalice turned to vinegar,
a bloom that suckles flies
and trembles with their song.

Each pattern now a crater,
each hollow ripe with stench;
where lovers once laid homage,
the termite wears the crown.

Be praised, foul reliquary!
Your rot is democratic,
no tongue could tell the difference
between your kiss and plague.

Still, you endure,
not temple, nor pleasure, nor flesh,
but carrion, crawling,
a monument to what is spoiled.

Penned by my hand on the 12th of Lupar, in the year 986 AF.