A legend of a blind king
crushing an iron sculpture is born
to warn an arc idol,
the golden awning, the granite floor
and the chandeliers with huge
brass bells,
where the naked feet
the covered head and the burning flames,
remind mortals
of a bloodstained field
that appear red.
This is all I view around
and forget the ancient man
on the death bed.
As I am engaged with a pundit
to strike a bargain,
philosophy assaults the head
with blows and it bleeds,
and I run away as wicked feelings fill
an empty brain.
