The Hands of Time

The old, weary emperor was a sign of the times,
always sitting, always smoking, always speaking in rhymes,
with his hands folded forward over the arms of his throne,
and the gaze of his eyes as blank as stone.
His face was hidden, when I came to him first,
behind silk, and smoke, and famine and thirst.
“Why have you come here?” he blew smoke with his voice.
I touched my head to the ground. “I had no choice.
I see the future, laid plain before my eyes;
I see death in your empire, and darkening skies.
Your people are starving, but I fear worse:
I see war with your famine—a lingering curse.”
“You come to insult me,” he spoke through his throat.
“Not I, my Emperor; but I am not here to dote.
Your people are starving, they cannot fight.
To the west, your enemy gathers his might.
I know, in your youth, even now, you’re a fighter;
and yet, in this famine, you’re a toothless tiger.”
I bowed lower still, and the emperor stood;
he stood tall and dark, and stiff like wood.
He walked through the smoke, then through the silk shroud,
and spoke—his voice harsh, gutteral and loud.
“Peasant,” he said. “You have broken a rule:
I think you are wise, and also a fool.
Wise, to see that my empire is weak,
but foolish to think that my people are meek.
My people are starving, their emperor is old,
but that doesn’t make my enemies bold.
My son, you see—now, you may rise—
my enemies, like you, also have eyes.
Like you, they see weakness throughout my land,
they see an old, weary emperor with poor, wrinkled hands.”
Then his voice bellowed, like a cannon shot:
“But, they will not attack; they have wisdom you do not.”
His wrinkled hands pulled me right off the ground.
He cried, “An old drum still makes a sound.
And, peasant, lodged between its paws,
a toothless tiger still has claws!”
Then the old, weary emperor cast me to the floor,
and watched as I left with my back to the door;
and as the door closed with one quiet stroke,
I saw him recede, through the silk, to the smoke.