What are you doing? Are you sleeping?
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.