The various members of the hierarchy move,
early morning awakening of the world.
They are like the shuffling of doors,
eager and reluctant, two-faced, I suppose.
Eight o’clock carillons seem universal magic.
Now after hoping for magic,
I was an ordinary messenger to arrive.
Wake up, you are yourself the God of Love
asleep. Whom did you expect? you lay
eyes closed as if afloat.
Proud boy,
whom did you expect who did not wear
only your lesser face? someone from up there?
someone just stepped down from a throne,
smelling of majesty?
Poetry has gone straight to your head.
Your mind wanders.
There are no empty thrones in heaven.
This is early morning in a world without kings.
A small-time Don Juan knocks at your door.
I put on all my pride to climb the stairs.
I was only a messenger of myself
to tell you you are yourself love.
How do you arrange the young men in your dreams?
arranging and rearranging youth’s hierarchies.
Don’t you hear the bells ringing,
starting the day out with common tunes?
Ta-Ra-Ra-Boom-De-Ay and Auld Lang Syne.
Waking up from your Imperial World,
you, for a moment, not I,
are emperor of my world.
The hierarchies of powers move like doors
—this is a good dream figure.
I am not dreaming.
I came to praise Love, not you.
And the poor writhe.
Bringing spiteful wreathes to celebrate…
I, being poor, brought my pride.
Wake up from your Empire. I am still dreaming.
This is early morning in a world of kings.
— Robert Duncan
