Some
centuries ago, all the pieces
Sank
under the Mediterranean -- walls, roof,
Columns,
doorways, statues, cotter pins,
Iron
fittings, spare bricks, tools-- everything
Needed to
construct a smallish temple
Including
the men to build it. Since then,
Ghosts
and chance have been slowly
Assembling
it on the sea floor; most of it
Now
stands and the statues of gods
Too
seaworn to remember who they were
Are being
pushed into place. A few prayers
Have
drifted down and been stored away
While the
gods can figure out exactly
What they
are gods of. Until then
There
will be interviews; there are openings
For every
sort of worshipper. The risks
Of
serving uncertain gods are spelled out
In very
small print in languages long deceased.
Dont let
this deter you; you won't be the first
To find
that who you worship is no longer,
And
perhaps never was, who you thought.
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