Hero trained prodigy, slave of war
A sight treasured, inside he's torn
His senses weaken, his heart unmolds
"Oh the fire. If only a fire of festivals"
"Oh the might, if only useful."
He comes to his throne
To a thud the son is slown
His acolytes swarm him
Yet how bitter his own heart, as ripe herb
The longing fades, his eyes dim
As he let's out his last cry
