I am not yours to embrace, I am not yours to invoke. I watch for signs of your imminent demise in scratches on the wall. I listen for sounds of your iminent decay in the singing of a solitary lark.

Even now in this our finest hour I feel the hate of every stone, tree and flower. Even now you fall under the long shadow of the donkey's ears. Even now you listen for the slow grinding of the donkey's teeth. You weep in the din of the stomping of the donkey's black hoof.

You weep for the slow coming of your doom.