Now is the Winter of My Discontent

ROBERT I

ROBERT, FATHER OF RICHARD II, SON OF RICHARD I:

Now is the winter of my discontent

After glorious spring by my men of York

Oh, of all the demons to destroy our treasured house

Their dagger deep in my bosom buried

My head bowed before their victorious wreaths

My battered ego gazing upon our lifeless monuments

My screams of delight turned shrieks of agony

Their dreaded march played to final measure

Gruesome war hath drained hope from my wearied visage

For now, it is the morning of their barbed tongues

Piercing the very soul of a vanquished adversary

Their frolic done through the Coast of West

Their song of victory stinging as vipers in my ear

I am filled with envy for their sportive tricks

I dare not gaze upon their winner's glass

I, stamped so fragile of heart, deprived of such fair possession

Cheated of lauding by this most horrid contrivance

Depressed, my stanza unfinished, cut to the quick before its time

Cast out into a desultory universe, but poorly made up

And that those so harsh and unseemly

Would bark their howling tune for yet another eternity

Why can I find in this hour no sliver of silent peace

No hint of shadow for there is found no moment of sun
I descend into an endless night of bereavement

And dare not dream of the possibility of a glorious tomorrow

There is but nothing to fill the emptiness of these days

 I have been struck a mortal blow by an empire of villains

Pleasure but derisive enemy of my most withering pain

Thoughts I once dared now haunting my wounded soul

Dreams, like vicious swords, cutting me through and again

Oh that my eyes could not serve as witness to their thorny crown

In desperate hate we have forever stood one against the other

Yet if somehow the gods be compassionate and just

And have pity upon one laid so despairingly low and forsaken

If one day they should know the sting that so cleaves me now

And if it be not cruelty that envisions near my men king slayers 

But for now I must rest my bloodied brain of such useless dreams

For the conquerors once more descend upon me in their unadulterated glory