Poems

The King

I am the king of the room
My crown is the dust of morning
And the land is my palace 
 
I am the king of the room
The giver, books do not compete with me
I am standing like a coat stand  
The eternal, like humidity on the wall.
 
Windows are in front of me
And the chair is my limping horse
 
 
The king of kings, I am! 
Nothing except the table
And the notebooks on it
Except the fingers hidden in the softness 
 
There is nothing except what I possess
 
*
 
I am a king made of doors and wrinkled clothes
And the splattered images on the wall
 
A king made of flying words as flies 
A king made of the cold
And the injurious loneliness 
 
I am a king of coughing 
And the decaying teeth
 
*
 
I am a king at the wasteful time
And I fall sometimes
 
I am a pale king
 
I am a little king
 
King!