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ou – swallowers of the scepters of power, I sing of

you, and below, in the Daugava, the water cries,

where you have drowned your dreams. Wounds are

torn open, and sparks become black, making you cold at

the bonfire. Open your eyes locked shut, I will in singing do

tricks for you, from an honored troubadour be transformed

to a clown and welter rags in mud, and you can trample me

underfoot. A stanza here and there will be dedicated to

those who suck dreams through thick draperies, I am their

deputy, I – black morphine, strategist of recklessness, just

listen to me and free up your nerves and throats, I will like

a butterfly search out a grey field and with fine proboscis

drone over the rushes, for my friend is a bumblebee, hidden

in green forest, and all around only late morning, and,

twirling tablets into mouths, I extend myself, turning my

gaze to the Highest, and of burning angels running in

flames I will plead forgiveness. Cobwebs wrap my wing, my

jug empty, no longer the warmth of childhood, only gloomy

and cool hung-over morning.

The Spinner of Tales to the Court