"And the day of his birth shall carry with it all the joy of a barren field in spring, all the glory of a lowing ox as it dies,
and all the beauty of the midden heap."

Thus was it promised. His birthright was dirt on a coffin.
Thus was it spoken. His inheritance shall be only tragedy.
Thus was it written. His every breath will suffocate the sun.

And so it was. Only in dusk does he walk, and his domain is the cairn. Weeping martyrs and orphaned children are his chorus,
and the rushing of blood is the trumpet of his inglorious arrival.