At you feet today tearfully I bow,
With nothing more to show,
Neither do I come with any presents,
Nor do I rehearse my speech at your gates,
As my lips await your cold kiss on that day,
As I too await to grace your presence.
With your staff always in hand,
To guide all to the far away land,
No words said to change your mind,
As we assume you really are thick-skinned,
Under your cloak your formless body resides,
In your hood your fiery eyes seem to burn
You above reproach we all love to loathe,
But love to call upon you when all seems down,
The voices of women mourning is your tune,
The grieving faces of men makes it all picturesque,
As you await for nature to cleave upon their flesh,
With the rising sun I seek your form,
As my ears silently await for thy arrival in the evening.
A weary soul I have become,
As I watch you pick and take at your will,
Let your staff to all be seen,
As I apraise your mightiness at humbling the mighty,
And your cruelty at picking on the weak!!!
At your feet I humbly prostrate!