I both feel and think that
I look on the flesh of an
old, old messenger with
some kingly news of history to bear.
Still, my eyes are uncertain
of what they see in this
crumbling human stock of one decayed,
decaying.
He gapes at me,
with a three-thousand-year-old eye socket,
wonders what I'm thinking of
this strange new palace
and his own glass throne.
