To my old homeland I return again enshrouded by autumnal fragrance. Blood trickling down from bleaking woods to the drenched soil - squandered - and seeps away.
On the field through accomplished cruelty an eminence grise strides, scattering ash on fallen heroes.
Is he the spirit of forgotten ancestors which takes charge of a conquered land? Is it in his mind to end up destruction which dominated the last centuries?
He should be the comrade of our blood enforced with honor and strength of old days.
He wields his ceptre, ash eclipses sunset and commands silence over this decease. It makes me shudder in consideration of this deed of the source of all fullfillment.
I retreat and bow down in reverence for the new sovereign.
