I look, and I wonder; what hast become to thy glory?
As those souls lay on thy feet, grasping the agony
Thou hath thy blade hidden in its scabbard.
Like a shaking steward, thou hath proven to be a coward.
Thunder cometh to the face of the earth
And thou ran to the moisty place of thy birth.
Muses' breath hath been an offering
But thou were too modest to accept their bringing.
What hath that bring to thy redemption plan
A unity never accomplished, rotting wishes of a man.
Finally, thou hopeth to swing thy blade
Only to realize that it was too late.
Now thou sit, counting thy lasting days in a wretched tent
With no one to accompany thou except thy own reflection's end.