The Emperor in his War-Room Peter Hammill

(i) The Emperor

Standing in the space that holds the silent lace of night
Away from you
You think that you can hold the searing, molten gold between
Your fingers...
But it slips through, tearing tendons as it goes
Exposing the white of a knuckle...
Flesh-and-metal forming letters in the mould

Cradling your gun, after choosing the ones you think should die -
Lying on the hill ... crawling over the windowsill into your
Living-room
They stare out, glass-eyed aimless heads
Bodies torn by vultures...
You are the man whose hands are rank with the smell of death
Saviour of the Fallen, Protector of the Weak
Friend of the Tall Ones, Keeper of the Peace...
Ah, but it is the only way you know.....

Looking out to sea, a flattened plane of weeds which bear no living
You crush life in your fist as your heart is kissed by the lips of death
Ghosts betray you, ghosts betray you
In the night they steal your eye
From its socket...
And the ball hangs fallen on your cheek
Complaining tongues are stilled; a thousand mouths are filled
With rusting metal
Your face a shade of green; somehow you try to speak through all the garbage in your mouth
But it won't come out, and you cannot frame the words
As your stepson
Throws your fame into the flames and you are burned
Saviour of the Fallen, Protector of the Weak
Friend of the Tall Ones, Keeper of the Peace
Ah, but it is the only way you know..........