Desolate is the dwelling of Moina, 
silence is in the house of her fathers. 
Raise the song of mourning, o bards! 
over the land of strangers. 
They have but fallen 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: 
yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes; 
it howles in thy empty court, 
and whistles round thy half-worn shield. 
And let 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.