Oh, thou, city of York! Wind freezes your walls. Under a grey sky, green fields around. How many deaths have your stones witnessed? How much blood have your land wet? Tell me about your people, about the peasants and craftsmen, about lovers and beggars, about marriages and burials, about children and old women telling sad stories to the priests.
Tell me about your dukes, the lords and their manors. Let me see them calling to war. Let me listen to young voices marching south; let me hear the screams; let me touch the tears of the wounded, smell the fragrance of the death.
Oh, thou, city of York! Open your cathedral's doors, music plays and horses neigh. A new duke has arrived and humble people cheer him on. The duke is a king's son. One day he will call to war and many will die for a crown, for a title, for a throne.
Lo anterior surgió como un comentario a la siguiente observación en Facebook de Jamie Mayerfeld:
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