He sits in a vast courtroom with no crown on his head. The coffers at his feet are empty save for a few coins. The throne is made of gold, crested with the sun. On his finger is a gold ring; the last of his treasures. The only treasure he cannot surrender. It is his last symbol. Engraved on the ring is a sprig of rosemary, because rosemary is for remembering.

The empty court has only a jester. He sits to the King’s left, but the little fool has no more songs, no more stories. The King has heard them all. So, the jester watches, his jibes as dry as the make-up peeling off his cheeks.

To the King’s right is another throne; all but empty. It is made of silver and the moon adores the crest. He never looks at it. A crown sits there, tilted between the seat and the arm. The crown is adorned with diamonds, most precious of stones. When the crown was cast, he made a promise on each one, a vow of fidelity… a vow of courage… a vow of devotion. A few have looked upon it, but few have the courage to wear it – to return the kind of devotion this King promises.

His face is long and drawn, his lips tattooed with a sad sigh. Behind him, behind the throne, is a vast library. There isn’t a single book in it that hasn’t known the touch of his hand, the gaze of his curious eyes. Unlike other libraries, no book enters this one without his permission. He knows every binding… every page. He could recite pages from books he’s read a dozen years ago. Chapter and verse.

Kneeling before him is a churl; a beggar. The sickly man’s story is pitiful to hear. Disease, famine, death, disaster. And this King looks at what’s left in his coffers… maybe a few coins. Not enough to save this poor wretch. So, the King looks at the treasures that surround him: the silver throne, the silver crown, the gold ring on his finger. He decides on the ring, removing it from his finger, extending it to the poor sod at his feet. The peasant looks up, his eyes filled with surprise, half-expecting to be cast out of the courtroom with a curse, or perhaps a few pennies to help him survive the week. But here, this King, this sad King, extends his last treasure; last because the silver crown and throne do not belong to him. They belong to another he has not yet met.

This is my First King. The Poor King who would rather give away his final treasure than watch another go hungry. The King whose knowledge is so vast, it fills more than just a library. Whose compassion and patience are so grand even the Smiling Buddha must blush for shame.

He understood long before I did that one must stoop to offer aid to a fallen man. Who knows that treasures mean nothing in the end. That all that began as mud and dust will end as mud and dust. All that matters is the time we have between those mindless ages of before-life and after-life.

But this Poor King forgets his own truths. He forgets that the truest treasures are those that cannot be given away: only shared. He knows this…

…he knows this…

… but he forgets it from time to time. And that is why I must sing for him and tell him stories. To remind him that when all the gold is gone and when all the treasure has been given away, there are treasures still. Treasures that cannot be counted. Treasures that cannot be spent.

And for all the gold he has, for all that he tries to give me, there is one thing of his I will always and forever treasure more.

His laughter.