Woe! that I should live to see greatness laid low!
Now is the Horse without Rider, here is the Throne without King.
Here is the cup without celebrant, the Horn without Herald.
Empty stands the Hall, bereft now of Heroes,
Graced only by Ghosts and the Memory of Might.
Love's Lamentations are now answered by Emptiness
and the Obstinacy of Death.
The Flower of Chivalry has withered, its season passing inexorably
like winds into darkly remembered yesteryears.
The Specter of Uncertainty looms over all.
What is now? And what is to be?
Rex Quondam, Rexque Futurus