For thy pain hungers thee to be of quenched quality, yet no feast to place my seat, no throne to rule thy brood, thy arrow stuck in its quiver thy bow unstrung, thy sword is sharp and strong, yet no battle to be, for thy days have fallen into winters storm, thy nights a frozen thorn, thy fields are barren, thy stores are empty, thy subjects have all but fled of thee, no sun shall rise for this I fear is thy final demise.