A weary Man, a frustrated mind,
 That cannot see, for he is blind.
He's unable to stand the tide of time,
 For he's no longer in his prime.

As the seasons pass so he weakens;
 Like ruined towers, dying beacons.
And with every passing day and night
 He's loosing more of his former might.

He has made his home in darkened caves,
Surrounding himself with a thousand slaves.
With their support, he vowed
  To descend upon his rivals as a deadly cloud.

And war was raging upon the Earth,
 To which sureness and ambition gave birth.
But since he defied death, and on life transgressed,
The living Mortals had him suppressed.

And so upon the reddened turf he fell,
Uttering a strong and painful yell;
And upon dying he went straight to hell,
 So do the voices of his victims tell.