She sits in tranquil beauty,

smiling softly at the river,

with a void all around Her

Children no longer play

In wild fields and clovers

Ladies do not sit and sigh,

bathing in soft sunshine

Now all that remains are

swaying branches and

light, whistling breezes,

a blaring horn from a truck passing by

She once had a story,

a purpose, a song

But long gone are the careful artists

who carved Her stone pot

(now resting meaningless on Her lap)

Gone are the priests who knew Her name,

and told the tale,

now a deep, forgotten maim in history

Gone are the humans that brought Her to life

that marveled and adored in idolatry

For what is a deity without Her story?