How to be a King

A 6 year old girl

Sits splayed on the floor, a golden crown nestled

In a tangle of matted brown hair. To rule a country, she thought –

What would I need? The power to command, she thought –

The power to control. Or is it perchance,

Riches galore, to pave the way to the throne in gold,

To have the world at my feet, the chance to grow old

While others around me fight for my peace.


The little girl grew and as she aged

Was scarred in places, she never dared say –

Doubled over too long, knees locked at her face

Despair. All at once and again, picked up the crown,

To nestle back in her hair.

To learn about Kings, she thought –

I have danced at night to the song of the trees,

Shaking their branches and thorns as they scraped

Down my knees.


I have lived yet,

I am a King