The Turn of the Last Emperor

The Turn of the Last Emperor
by Paul Anderson

The silver screen shows silk and jade,
A childhood caged, a world betrayed.
They softened blows, disguised the truth,
A twisted sapling of his youth.

But when the reel gives up its light,
A stillborn vision takes its flight:
Not of the throne, but of the soil—
A life reclaimed through patient toil.

He lifts a spade; his hands are soft,
The dragon’s burden cast aloft.
Each strike into the stubborn ground
Repeats the cruelest, hollow sound.

The turned-up earth, a dark, fresh tear,
For every cry he would not hear.
For every face that turned away,
A seed of conscience chose to stay.

He feels with sharp, relentless pain
The kindnesses he lost in vain.
The jade-walled pride, the dragon’s call,
That destined him for such a fall.

Yet now he holds the tenderest Ming:
A humble seed, hope’s offering.
It asks for nothing but the earth,
And knows its own inherent worth.

He learns the patience of the sun,
A race that cannot be outrun.
He learns that nothing good is forced;
From living stems, the lessons sourced.

He waters, watches, learns to tend,
And makes a broken spirit mend.
The garden grows, and so does he—
From tyrant down to devotee.

He sees the vine, the branch, the leaf
Defy the walls of old belief.
No border marks the drifting bee;
The rain falls on all equally.

And in the fruit, the flower, weed,
He finds a final, sacred creed:
That nothing born of life should be
Forbidden—neither world, nor he.

No longer lord of all, he calls
An answer to the springtime’s thralls.
A humble gardener, he sees
A world that grows on bended knees.