Monday, December 14, 2009
With such time of passion, we tread and bury
The crowned queens so quarrelling with kings of nations.
Their wondering heads wear those fitting decorations,
Round their skulls of glory.
Our hearts light with fervour, and glory utters a sound,
Unstable are the hearts of blood and gore, to make noise.
Round their skulls is sheer glory.
At the feet of the princesses are lots of tiny queens,
Just princes work with sad eyes to distribute effort.