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Priam, mine own Priam,

Lying so lowly,

Thou in thy nothingness,

Shelterless, comfortless,

See'st thou the thing I am?

Know'st thou my bitter stress?

Nay, thou art naught to him!

Out of the strife there came,

Out of the noise and shame,

Making his eyelids dim,

Death, the Most Holy!

[The fire and smoke rise constantly higher.

O high houses of Gods, belovèd streets of my birth,

Ye have found the way of the sword, the fiery and blood-red river!

Fall, and men shall forget you! Ye shall lie in the gentle earth.

The dust as smoke riseth; it spreadeth wide its wing;

It maketh me as a shadow, and my City a vanished thing!