It had been nearly a year since the civil war. And I had not won the heart of that lovely Mya,
I had kept her safe from the disgruntled and violent plebs,
Only to have her leave me with a word from her brain,
"You are always trying to impress me..."
So easy for her to say, and ignore my valorous ways,
For when the Harpies had descended and tormented everyone,
I slit their throats, drenching my leather and iron.
Now I stand before a burning Rome, high atop a tree,
Calling, Calling, to the Goddess of the Jubilee,
And there is no answer, as promised by the Monks and priests,
There is only bitter winter winds, and snow upon the peaks.