Please, tell me what will happen next.
Give out the details of my sleeping life.
You know my fate better than me.
I have been satisfied with empty light.
My feet in the soft body of a still tiger,
my skull covered in dulled silver.
Those who feed my heavy crown
tell me nothing of my dark side.
I lift you out of my guarded chamber
to display your rare light
in the pasty glitter of my palace.
Uncannily, you peer
into what all land-fathers fear:
the kingdom of plump and pleasure
has no meaning.
I miscalculate my rulership.
My poetry is dead.
My thick and thin cattle
graze in the direction
of your satisfying force.
Your pronouncement outweighs
my world of skins and bright feathers,
carved-face stones and rubied queen,
polish-muscled servants and blinded scribes.
From this inner room of painted walls,
how do I view the source of living?
Please, stuff my empty granaries, my cranium,
with all your goodness and understanding.