The
Emperor and the fools
The impeccable sense stood written,
In the dusk of the crystals that lay
broken,
And yet the triumph was never sung,
The unarchs never feasted with the
emperor,
Her highness with valor mingles not with
the neutured,
The sterile hopes of of the dust
dwellers.
Yet dawn lay far from dusk,
Struggling to outwit themselves in stampede,
The duel with their own hooves,
Trampling under their own confusion,
As her highness watched from the throne,
Woven from their sweat and decorated by
their blood.
It is still long before dusk
Before the rain soaks their ignorance,
Before the sun dries their dripping
stupidity,
And yet the emperor still sits
With a goblet in hand,
Emptying the casks,
As the fools trample in a show.
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