In the midst of a night so cold,
lay I, who wore a crown of stone.
My only company,
the scitters of the feral,
and the those who grieve softly.
And I allow the luarels to grow,
both atop my head and because I am dead.
The reaper watches sleepily,
but I can feel the blade fall lower.
Upon my head, a crown of stone.
Written boldly: Here lay the king of old.