A prison grows from days of almost rain
in which no heart will break the silent wall
or loose a hardened face to friendship's call
when country claims all love, and duty, same.
In daylight or in shade, this man can't gain.
The shadow of his throne as yet looms tall
for that shape forms the land and carries all
but one man's private pleasures or his pain.
Perhaps the rain could come to touch his skin
as now it touches peasants tilling fields
if he'd been common born far from this place.
Still this dream ends; at waking he begins
his daily contemplation whence he yields
into that dark glass where he has no face.