You housed the Sun once
in the summer of its Golden Age

but drifting now, you dim,
a crab scuttling in the darkness,

inconspicious but for your complaints
nipping at the heels of younger men --

no ones knows the glory that once was
your path marked in the heavens

the arc of summer, the birthplace of kings,
and the quiet hope of man,

for now you house only the drunk and the ass,
and the angry bees sting at your heart.