Desolate is the dwelling of [Moina]1, 
silence is in the house of her fathers. 
Raise the song of mourning, o bards! 
over the land of strangers. 
They have but [fallen]2 before us: 
for one day we must fall. 
[Why dost thou build the hall, 
son of the winged days? 
Thou lookest from thy towers to-day:]3 
yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes; 
[it howles in thy empty court,]3 
and whistles round thy half-worn shield. 
[And let]4 the blast of the desert come! 
We shall be renowned in our day! 
The mark of my arm shall be in battle; 
my name in the song of bards.