Oh morbid Denmark, you wreak of rotting flesh. Blood stains the tapestry that hangs in your castle.
In your state, all that once flourished, withers into nothing: even, rue, the flower of repentance cannot grow here.
This dreadful prison, was once home to a prince, who mourned for his father daily. Now the ears of this head have become filled with poison, and all who caught the disease now lay in an eternal sleep.
Bodies lay in rows, dressed in white, but the purity of their garments touches the filth of the earth.
Even the clouds growl at the sight of Denmark, where the prince once walked, dressed in black, up and down the looming halls. His words bounced off each wall, crumbling them; crushing those who were too slow to get away.
Now the castle lies in ruins and worms eat at its flesh.
All is rotten in this state.