The emperor walks on the dust of the bones under the perfect stones, his rings shine like the sun, earth and light catch him mortally under the silk that touches his body.
It is unconceivable to look at him in the eyes, some say: they are endless tunnels. A deaf dismay of spades digging, white, shiny, sharpen for repetition, escapes his smile.
Nobody has ever defied such power, those born in our kingdom know this, our destiny is written by him.
Our family is happy, a wise man has inhabited in our blood centuries ago, he has marked us all with discipline and phrases, our trade is our wealth, from him we learn to be, from father to son something new in the sameness distinguishes us, I will not tell.
When his emissaries arrive by some text, they know they must be delicate, our words are capable of raising kingdoms, our job is to think.
The problem of him who has it all is that he is devoured by the void, we smile in our garden, our tea is the best, only in this way we write for the emperor.
Translated by Paula Marcenaro