End of Term

What are you doing? Are you sleeping?

Where?

Safe in your hideous tower

high in the air?

 

When you awake, sit in your golden chair,

look in your gilded mirror

will you stare

at anything besides your golden hair?

 

And when the mirror cracks

as it must surely,

will you run out

where once grew fields of barley,

 

cry: I am known in all the land!

and vainly looking for your pedestal

discover even that has turned to sand,

to rust, to dust; to smoke – a choking pall.