The King is dead, the king is dead! Oh god, the king is dead!
And the queen: shall she live long, or perish alongside the Hope of nation’s thrust?
Water not the garden and worms feed, and rot visit, and all of Hermès ghosts upon your crop.
If salt becomes him from the mirror and seldom his feet touch kingdom’s dirt, stone cries for a blood sacrifice and fast draws tide from moon’s bright magnet, and spill red soldiers in breach over high walls.
Garden renewed, but Eden tilled and plowed and ruined, without ceremony or sanctity. An evergreen cemetery of irreverence.
Welcome man and his bright plight for a time, but always the darkening comes.