The Demon

So spoke the Demon, mindful of hardships and of cruel slaughters:

Each dawn I rise alone, mind in ancient woes, wretched and deprived of my native land, my mind bound with fetter.
For many years, I lay hidden in the concealment of the earth, buried deep in stone.
From there, I went, object and wintergrieving, over the surface of the waves, seeking the prison of my noble kinsmen.
Sorrow is a cruel companion to one who can afford few friends, and the path of exile attends this mournful spirit.
And so this world, everyday, is crumbling and falling.
The rulers lie dead. Deprived of revelry, bands of warriors lie fallen proudly by the wall.
War destroyed some, carried them away; a sorrowful man hid one deep within a grave.
Thus the creator of man laid waste this dwelling place, until the old world of giants stood vacant, without the vibrance of its inhabitants.

So spoke the Demon, set apart in secret meditations: the kingdom of earth is full of miseries, and the decree of the fates shall not change the course of the heavens.