The crown heavy of regret;
the robe sagging the shoulders;
you tell me of the might of the king when at night he shudders.
His bed drenched with tears of remorse;
his heart in eternal lament;
you tell me of his lurid luxury and bags of gold when under all burdens his spine has bent.
He made an army of loyal killers and coated his sword with blood;
he is living on oaths but dying on the feet of scared children who lost their fathers in wars.
What makes you think he is not us;
that he is armed with...