I am not expectant of fame and fortune
God is never bewitched by such pangs
I wrote about melancholy without grief in my tune
Humour was the caption of the trees of my lands
I admire the nonsense that makes time brief
You can see there was prolonged toil in my weave
Age is practically a dispassionate sieve
It takes love, and gives it what it deserves
Likewise, loyalty, that is a sacred radiant concierge
The stones that built the invincible fortress
have borne it without so much as an acknowledging caress
Do you know that such selflessness is blessed
to live longer than the self-seeking rest?
And you can see the stone will lay
to tell my story beyond my grave
that those who care to know, should know I was brave
A grandmaster who was happy to be slave
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