What should I write, my king? What tears may I wrench from out this heart to make the ink, and with what quill should I write it, a pinion plucked from the broken wings of my soul? But thou art dead. The golden crown no longer glimmers upon your blessed head. Tarnished, forgotten, your glory is passed.
What should I write but death, again and again, and blot out this white page with black, overlapping letters until the leaf drips with that one dark word?
I have lived to long, not only to outlive you, but also your memory. Already they flock to your usurper. I alone recall that they once praised your name. This alone I may write, that they have left their first love.
Tale Told 