As the trees above you,
as the Earth beneath,
all you oppress shall love you—
with hate behind clenched teeth.
All the gold you gather,
all the grain you reap,
is a plague upon you,
slumbering in sleep.
Who will bring you water?
Who will bring you wine?
You are Fortune’s daughter—
you are no child of mine.
The circle, when it closes,
will see your card reversed.
Trampled are your roses,
and your throne accursed.
Red will be your banner,
black will be your name;
suspicion be your manner,
and deep will be your shame.
Who will bring you water?
Who will bring you wine?
You are Fortune’s daughter—
you are no child of mine.
Perfect is your beauty,
and gleaming is your crown,
but ruined is your country—
your fortress falling down.
Many are your riches,
but surely as you go,
the ones from whom you borrowed
will take back what you owe.
Who will bring you water?
Who will bring you wine?
You are Fortune’s daughter—
you are no child of mine.
