Poem: 67
Friday, 24 February 2017
The King
Feb 25, 2017 · 1 min read
What ancient sage, long lost to time
Understood so well, the paradoxes of power
That the crown must hide, allowed only a single move
Any direction but far, any speed so long as it’s slow
Trapped on Trantor’s gilded prison, this world-city, this galaxy-empire
Belongs to me, but not I to it
Would that I could possess, the freedom of that beggar
Pauper envious of the prince, eat your bread or starve
Lust not for these feasts, these finer things
This gold is cursed! And for it we pay a heavy price
Plotting behind us, lurking in cloisters, whispering in alcoves
For what? For what opportunity
Is this chasing worth
The mob bangs down the doors
The ministers flee by secret tunnels
Recording available:
Listen to me read this aloud.
