Your gates are open – Emelie,
your turrets are unmanned;
across the gleaming moat I see
you wave with welcome hand.
No horses, arrows, swords or shields
for victory I need;
while bloodless stays the streets and fields -
your eyes I try to read.
But just the sound of your soft voice -
and I'm in shackles bound;
a happy slave that knows no choice,
who chains of gold has found.
You're waving still – I halt to choose -
as near to you I draw;
to force retreat – or win yet lose -
but choose I can no more.