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The candle’s low, the hall is still,

The winter wind creeps past the sill.

He lies in silk, the monarch old,

With hands grown weak from rings of gold.

Oh crown of the morning, weight of the sun,

Heir to the blood, the first-born son.

Beside his bed, a shadow stands,

A boy now grown with calloused hands.

His father’s breath is thin and slow—

A torch about to lose its glow.

Oh crown of the morning, weight of the sun,

Heir to the blood, the first-born son.