I first connected this poem with Skyrim by the last verse, for obvious reasons. But reading the whole thing suggested quite a few parallels. It's about the decline of an empire, and threat of the North to a decadent southern civilisation.

I think Ulfric would like this poem.

Anyway, I've adapted it, badly, to make some of the anologies more obvious. I've had to mess with rhyme and metre a bit. Someone else could probably do a better job. The original poem is here: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15546

And here's my adaptation:


The piers are pummelled by the waves;
In a lonely field the rain
Lashes an abandoned wagon train;
Outlaws fill the mountain caves.

Fantastic grow the evening gowns;
Agents of the Thalmor pursue
Absconding Talos worshippers through
The sewers of provincial towns.

Private rites of magic send
The priestesses of Dibella to sleep;
All the mages keep
An imaginary friend.

Cerebrotonic Shalidor may
Extol the Ancient Disciplines,
But the muscle-bound Imperial marines
Mutiny for food and pay.

Titus Mede's double-bed is warm
As an unimportant clerk
Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK
On a pink official form.

Unendowed with wealth or pity,
Little birds with scarlet legs,
Sitting on their speckled eggs,
Eye each flu-infected city.

Altogether elsewhere, vast
Herds of reindeer move across
Miles and miles of golden moss,
Silently and very fast.

Wow, that was very good. How long did it take you to adapt it?

Very good