Step inside and look around,
and wonder at what’s been lost.
Minutes, decades, eternities,
poor Saint Jane is always here.

Broken walls, crumbling cross,
this awful state’s no accident.
Be it her way, or just her effect,
this is how her temple must be.

We tell tales, yes, of other things.
Shining steeples, wealth, and kings.
But these things are no part of her,
Saint Jane claims only ruins.

Claims? Causes? Does it even matter?
All are crushed before or for her.
Raise up your token idols, now;
she’ll wear them away anon.