The Night of Work

I sit in a leather throne,

atop a tower; by winds gusts being thrown

A tremble here

makes the boat of the land steer

The books release the flood of letters,

washing ashore plights of beggars

that echo in the dark around me

and in the Night solemnly

The clock strikes two,

I tremble in exhaustion too

as gears grind and scream in metal

I reach for another cup in the silver kettle

The warmth freezes the hands

and chases away the howling of the lands

as they lay below,

bathed in Moonlight glow