ye wind of blood doth reek
soil with its tenured stains
a state canst never be more bleak
a land whither hope refrains
how my lips tremble when I recite
hence ye days be dark nay bright
and them whom address ye sorrow
with tears that they didst borrow
from ye dead who didst impale
squall and exclaim with ail
thither hath been a tale of more woe
that of Juliet and NOT her Romeo
