Fiat Rex

There being neither bangled dancers

swirling cloth-of-gold and green

nor golden peacocks set in trees

above the marble garden ponds,

we are assured we are no king.

O, but were I king I would command

my flautists out upon the porch

and golden bowls of tamarinds

and pomegranate seeds in ice

set down within my reach.

Or I would welcome envoys from the east

with feasting and a holiday,

rise to declare our love for peace

and whisper orders to proceed.

It’s well I do not rule this place

for I would teach the crowded lands

that peace is war in shepherd’s dress.

And I would lead great armies south,

and at the Ganges cry aloud

for other worlds that I might win.

How many died that day in Itaban?

I can’t remember but my sword

was black with blood and we won through.

I saw a jackal gnaw a hand

and ordered all the bodies burned.

Now I grow cold and get no heat

from charcoal fires in the spring.

What did it gain? My son is dead,

and men put paper in between

my word and deed, and speak of laws,

and I’m an old and heirless king.

I see them smile and look away.

I’ll teach them that the old hand still-

I’ll summon guards-Antíloches-

no, he’s dead these ten years gone;

I do not know if guards will come.

Let Strake and Tolma make their plans

to take this kingdom when I’m done.

It is enough their fathers stood

beside me while we battled worlds.

I wonder if their ghosts still laugh

at how we broke the Hittites like a dam

and poured our armies on the east.

From the porch, the ivory flutes

ring echoes in the colonnades;

a golden bird’s gold feathers trail

down to touch the marble pond.

It’s good to sit here and recall,

an old king resting in the sun,

though all the swirling dancers know

we are no king at all.