The Sleep of Kings

You are an old man
speaking into wind.
Knowledge is a sickness
of disbelief; it names
its fools. At the moment
of sleep, a man is humbled;
his soot-filled eyes resemble
death. Even the miracle
of his mind ceases to exist;
in an unknown language
his futile dreams attempt
to unravel its origons,
its mysteries. Always,
early in the morning,
a halo of light, again
crowns him king.

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