Teaching his queen such old words it would seem not been spoken since yoremen bore helm;
High in the hills of the barrenbought land high atop the mount's loneliest spire,
looks on the old crow with a heart full of woe as the king lays himself to retire;
Warm the wind blows as the evening grows staving off with a guilt-ridden hand,
cracked as the earth burns a fire in his hearth as our queen lays her king to expire;
Long does he draw his last breaths, weak and raw as he searches her eyes for his fate,
heavy with tears, on for each of his years does she whisper to sleep her sweet mate;
Long would he sleep long would his mistress weep within mortar as gray as his hair,
and so unto death uttered with his last breath ends the reign of our king with her prayer.
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