Eos, you cognate of the dawn.
Each history had a word for you.
For you leathered the face of every priest.
You energized every holy land.
You illuminated all our prayers.

Why do we no longer write poems in your honor?
How have you become some post modern cliche?
You built our language as sure as our pyramids.
Should we not pay homage? Should we not worship you still?

You’ve been replaced by petty deities.
Human kings divined of flesh.
No wonder we darken the skies to hide from you.
Little wonder you wax scorching, inhospitable.