The Emperor’s Mountain

From his jade throne
He issues decrees to the wind,
Commands the sun to bow,
While cherry blossoms fall
Without seeking permission.

Ten thousand soldiers
March beneath his banner,
Yet cannot conquer
The moss that grows
Between temple stones.

His golden seals stamp orders
Into important papers
While clouds drift overhead,
Unimpressed by borders
Drawn in human ink.

In mirrored halls
He sees reflections of his glory,
Never noticing how
The moon illuminates
Both palace and peasant’s hut equally.

His ministers whisper
Of eternal dynasties,
As mountains smile silently,
Having watched kingdoms rise
Like morning mist
And fade like evening shadows.

The emperor points east,
But the river flows south,
Carrying leaves that care nothing
For the credentials of current rulers.

In gardens pruned to perfection,
Wild dandelions breach walls,
Teaching lessons in defiance
To those who would control
The breathing of the earth.

At night, when crown and scepter rest,
The cricket’s song fills empty halls,
Speaking ancient wisdom:
Power is a dewdrop
On a blade of grass,
Catching light for a moment
Before returning to air.

The mountain watches,
Neither moved by proclamations
Nor stirred by ambition,
Teaching emptiness
To those who would listen.

In the end, even emperors
Return to the same soil
That feeds the humble weed
Growing through cracks
In the palace steps.

This too shall pass,
Whispers the evening breeze,
As another dynasty
Dissolves into the eternal way
Of clouds and streams.