The king’s beard on which sauces and ovations

fell until it became heavy as an axe

appears suddenly in a dream to a man condemned to die

and on a candlestick of flesh shines alone in the dark.

One hand for tearing meat is huge as a whole province

through which a ploughman inches forward a corvette lingers

The hand wielding the sceptre has withered from distinction

has grown grey from old age like an ancient coin

In the hour-glass of the heart sand trickles lazily

Feet taken off with boots stand in a corner

on guard when at night stiffening on the throne

the king heirlessly forfeits his third dimension