---

Wrapped inside the finest silk

a king fat-stomached and utterly spoilt

Lying slowly on his featherbed

bethinking of his duties divine

Feeding the lions,

impaling the disobedient slaves.

Well-fed and ready for ablution

Nothing can hold him back

as a temptress calls his name.

Later at night,

lounging next to an opium-pipe;

"No successor.

I'm the last of the imperial cult.

What's left of me when I'm gone,

except the eternal archetype.

My governance, my ascendance

I shall bury with me in the stars.

The world will rise from the ash,

but no wisdom prevails."