Here in this arena covered in frost,
Few battles were won and many were lost.
Too few noble men have crossed its path,
For they are afraid of its vengeful wrath.
But of this vengeful wrath it hath little
For feeling in it has drained to a trickle
This desolate arena of mine
Has but one occupant at this time
Little me, little we it is me, myself, and I
It is me inside my mind!
So now I shall sit here and laugh
Leaning on this brittle old staff
For I have weakened beyond recognition
But one of these days come and listen
To an old spinner of tales
Whose life begins to fail
Where has my strength gone?
It has been far, far too long . . . .
 
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