The great gates hang
on broken hinges,
the temples blaze,
the walls are breached;
the palaces have all been looted
the end of a dynasty has been reached.

Those still living
have all been taken,
women and children have been sold;
the last king hangs
from the palace lintel,
the images burn to give up their gold.

Think,
when you dream of country houses,
of shattered rafters and sudden fear;
and, as you climb the social ladder,
remember the last king
hanging here.