The emperor sits atop his throne. Waiting. Always waiting. He was waiting to rule. Now he waits to cease.
His eyes are getting older. His movements slower.
The banquets have passed. The long tables with candelabras and wine and chalices.
There are no more parades, no waving hands and glossy smiles and long velvet trains.
He waits for the winters to come, for the snow to settle and ice to spike the wind.
He prepares for the long summers nad the dry rivers and the ribbons of sunlight through the church windows.
For the smell of roasted nuts and corked wines and the festive confetti and the halls festooned with candles.
One day his eyes will close a little. Then more. And more. Until he sees only light and colour through the slits of his eyelids.
Then he will lean back in his throne, and farther back in his tomb. And another emperor will come.
Art by Woraya Chotikul
Text by Lucie MacAulay
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