The plank filleth his field of vision
Though an old man put all his strength
Into his well-trained blade
His wither'd arm is still pathetic
Missing his aim, with a swish of the sword
He stumbleth and falleth
O, old man!
The sword howleth
The burning summit
Of the fortress tower of Troy--
An it falleth, struck by lightning...
For a short time
Byrsa's ears shall grow deaf
O, look! White-haired aged king!
Swung and raised,
The sword halteth in the sky
Byrsa standeth petrified
Byrsa shall soon return this violence
Aim the blade dripping with blood
At the aged king, and strike him down!