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


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