Sacred King in Winter

I, Arturus Rex, stumble
on frost benumbed feet.
The ivy is no more
which twined about the antlers
on my brow,
which sheltered the grotto door.
Now is the icewolf
sent by the gods to gnaw
and ravage all which once was.

Herne, your son implores,
guide me against this
darkness on the soul.
The sharp thorns of the ivy
tear away my golden thread.
Unhealable are their wounds,
as unstaunchable as the yew darts'
taps in the flesh of the Horned One.

I have become the Fisher King
engrailed in the chapel
of crystal and cunning.
But whom does the Graal serve?
Will no Gwynniver
lift my cracked lips
to Her cup of birth and rebirth?

The riotous fool has taken my kingdom;
foolish he is for wanting its crown.
My head I offer the Green Knight;
may He make better use of it than I.
Sacred kings rule for a year and a day
but the land rules forever.

More light, I beg you!