Now is the winter of our oppression
Made glorious summer by this son of snakes.
And all the clouds that did upon our house
Descend to besmirch our name with their vile
Treachery hath waned as the setting sun,
Yet waxing will not come of waning light,
When I have set to paint the gold orb black.
And slay those traitorous foes who do their
Noble line belie, who with muddied hands
And names alike do taint the once-revered
Name of their ancestry that they forsake,
And do, without remorse, ever defile.
Too long in silence hath this serpent slept,
Mere dreams too meager to prove sustenance,
Yet if dreaming and designing be as
One, allow that I may sleep a while more,
That I, with greater strength, might smite my foes
Down to the filth that they so dearly love,
And seize such power that is rightly mine
Alone. Such devastation shall my wrath
Bestow, ruin to all that dare denounce
My power. Upon their vile, trembling lips,
I shall naught but an epithet remain,
Too fearful of my true name to give it
Utterance, for I am Lord Voldemort.