Bemoan the loss of love, my friend,
For all your work and all your wit,
No sun shall shine differently,
Atop the throne, upon which you sit.
Thou have shredded mountains,
Carved in sky another moon,
Let fields to be burnt black,
And turned red the blue lagoon.
True men have fallen,
Fallen men had been found,
And the polished marbles,
White as bone,
Are now treaded without a sound.
Macabre music stirs anew,
Dead wood against damp motion.
Empty ships wander aimlessly,
Upon the skin of ocean.
Thine will hath done it all,
Thy hands are forever marked,
This journey would near no end,
For which you have embarked.
And when you are done and gone,
As a memory without a face,
Thy tomb shall hold no runes,
Thy dust shall find no place.
For thou have shredded mountains,
Carved in sky another moon,
Let fields to be burnt black,
And turned red the blue lagoon.
THE HUMAN ANVIL 