See now the road of kings.
Grown with vines and foxes’ dreams.
Winding its way over death fields forgotten,
Into ashen caves of kings brought in,
Caskets draped in white shawl
Sword and stone laid over all.
Behold: The body of another king,
In graves upon graves,
resting. Not one rising.
No tears crying,
For only she will fly:
That bird of many colors,
Above the red sunrise,
Who sings her calling.
And down below, broken clocks keep falling,
Where bells ring upon empty towns.
And gamblers flip coins down.
And they have not seen the halls,
That beyond the King’s Road lay:
A thousand rooms of cold-stone grey
Draped with the bloodspray of Brutus’ knife,
Pooled like oil from a lamplight.
All such spaces lie barren,
Filled with smoke, pride and arrogance.
Washed away into air and sky,
Another son of sons
On his last road rides.