International Tutors' Magazine April 2019 | Page 23

APRIL 2019
The next morning, Tata is not there when I wake up. The maid confesses that Tata has
volunteered as sacrifice for the Good Poetry Festival this year and set off to the capital an
hour ago.
“For God’s sake...Saddle my horse.” I hear myself.
It takes at least five hours from our town to the capital, even with the fastest horse.
“But, my lord, you haven’t written anything this year.”
“Five hours is more than enough for composing one poem.”
When I arrive, my horse is too tired to come to an elegant halt. He sags to the ground
and I am dropped to the floor embarrassingly. I crawl to the eunuch who is in charge of
collecting poems.
He gives me a piece of paper and says: “ Be quick! I will submit them to our Emperor after
finishing this cup of tea.”
I don’t have the strength to look up and check how much tea remains. I bite my finger and
write without thinking --- My forging of words now lay within my finger.
Unexpectedly, I am out after the first round. The Emperor does not appreciate my
romantic poem at all. I heard that he considered it more like an obituary. I make my way
home only with my horse accompanying. Tata is probably beheaded now, or later --- I’m
not sure about that. I really need to make up an explanation to the mayor. But the darkness
comes to my eyes; my hands is slipping off the reins and I hear:
“Oh, your Majesty! Thank god you are awake. You have been napping for a while.
Ministers are still waiting for your verdict. Not satisfied about the poems this year, my
Emperor?”
I take a sip of tea, ruminating over the strange dream I just had, and then glance at the
piles of poetry. The one on the top is written in red.
I feel angry that someone dare to ignore my submission requirement: “Black font; max.
700 words; double spaced” --- I have made it very clear. All of a sudden, I hear the eunuch
exclaim under his breath, “My majesty! Your finger is bleeding!” v
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