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Poetry: Politics

 

King Haggard's Song

The walls crumble
beneath my feet,
the mountain dissolves.
What is it,
in your level eyes, that makes
the mountain shift to
the uneasy shuffle of
power not quite asleep?
Look.    Here
the sea races toward the rock,
foam and spume, prancing
in rainbow attandance,
necks arched and horns delicate,
whiter than winter
or clean air.
It ebbs before my face, and
the power sleeping in 
heartless rock.
You see it.       Yet,
there is nothing there.
The walls dissolve.
The mountain stirs
fitfully.
                Nothing
moves me, except
your eyes, and the silverspray of
my unpossessed tranquility.
I am the Law!
Do not deny me!
All things of power are mine,
and all of beauty, save one.
Save one.           The waves
prance forward at the sight
of your hair.     The air is
clean, where you are.
All things are mine,
save one.         What victory
yours?
With shining  eyes,
pierce my flesh:  emptiness
does not rush out.

You will know my hand:
the wound of my wanting has
your shape.       What victory
leaves your flesh bearing
my hand, my heart at peace
in your possession?


For the old gentleman, long dead, who told me the meaning of the pearl-chasing dragon:
Reverend Teacher, it is more complex even than you told.
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