has accumulated in your absence.
Your house is filled with drunks
and thieves, all seeking to stain
my inheritance. I grow stronger
in their midst, studying their
weak spots, which are many,
but still I cannot string your bow.
At night the women curse
the weakness of the men,
their cruelty and their decadence:
soon they come to curse all men.
But when the morning comes,
and tears have run dry, they cry
for the return of the king.
May my strength grow faster
than the chaos grows.
May my mother, may your queen,
hold the line of rancid would-be suitors
back as long as she can. I will not
fight in haste: I will fight as planned.
But your return would topple
all these hollow men.
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