To fight, to die, to no avail,
To live and run ‘til day so pale
You too will end your life as those
Who died before the battle throes.
Why flee when all will die of late
Or sooner still, from crooked blade?
In peace no more, the line has failed
For all with lamentation wail.
This broken house of ancient men
Far lesser now than what began
My fate 'tis bitter to perceive
That last am I, none to bereave.
To see what comes from Palantir
Your fare to know not what is near
Fly, fly you fools to die alone
No saving grace will us atone.