I recall the days before the world turned cruel
when two young descendants had not yet thought to rule
As these seasons change it seems to me
he sees not a brother but an enemy
he has spoken of the voice that directs him to rise it
sings in his ear and promises ascension as his prize
father is growing old amidst this strife
I fear that my brother is growing bold
factions are building
and the turmoil is boiling
great gains can be made upon the pain of the people
he has spoken of the voice that directs him to rise
it whispers in his ear and promises ascension as his prize
it was an unassuming August morn
the younger of the brothers the last to be born
presumed upon himself my birth right
father was slain with a stolen crown
he cast me down the river
has taken a turn and I must follow its course
I must seek the strength that lives in me
he has spoke of the voice that directs him to rise
it whispers in his ear and promises ascension as his prize
