I recall when you were a nettle shrine,
pews of stinging congregation hailing
golden sun cracking through branches of pine;
royal light upon painful leaves, shining.
You were blessed haven, green oasis
with brambled path beside bubbling, brown brook.
A sacred place, a time lost between us
as I revelled in your richest of looks.
Ravenous tools of this machine age
came with gnashing jaw and rending claw
to level your pride, upon you war-waged.
Now you lie in ruin, yet another land sore.
And we wait for the new saplings to grow,
for trunks to break earth, in the next shrine show.
‘Oh how I wish to go down with the sun
Nightwish, Sleeping Sun