Alas, farewell, my golden King!
Descend now to thy fabled death.
Below these pines, I do not know
If there thy brothers draw their breath.
In thine glory dost thou descend,
With brightened flames surround thy frame.
Thy blood is strewn across the skies
That crimson wave of ancient fame.
Behold! Thy frame that stood once strong,
Is now a twisted pile of gold,
Curved and tossed at every turn,
Its structure shall by no means hold.
Thy bones crash to the rocks below,
Those fabled rays that stood so grand,
Washed upon a foamy pink tide
Unto a distant unknown land.
But if thy Maker maketh kind,
With one night’s war you shall arise.
And in thy struggle riseth forth,
A triumph blazing through the skies.
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