On the hilltop, close to the house of the empress, Your temple 
Is dark, sunken: a pit. The thick crowded pillars 
Stumps only. The dread of Your presence 
Lopped, like them, cold in mutilation. 
Throning it here, in the stillness: vacancy. 
In times beyond this time, were you robed in darkness? 
You were known, then, as the Great Goddess. You are 
Great even yet, more terrible, Mother Cybele, now you are 
nothing.