You look out of your tower painted white
and hear the teeming masses shout your name.
Do you regret the wicked price of fame,
the beatific gift you lost that night?
And do you still believe it is the same—
these peacock feathers tinged with darkened flame,
a pale imitation of your light?
This sovereignty constructed out of bones,
where your unshriven vassalage must dwell—
Was this what you desired when you fell?
Can you not hear those pitiable moans
above the words your legionaries yell?
It is the song of pride that burns in hell
and echoes off the alabaster stones.