Astrologers are harlots,
paid to please.
Fairground fakirs,
one eye on the heavens
the other in their pockets,
a third watching, seeking
clues from their patron.
Beware, my son.
I am not the favourite wife
You are not the favoured son.
My horoscope told I would outlive
three sons. The greatest,
a comet, soaring in beauty
through the desert’s blue black sky
to astonish all who saw his rise.
Great beauty, great power,
but oh the fall, to sudden
total darkness.
A son blinded by his brother, cast out,
rising in despair to final execution.
Beware my son. Hear me.
This horoscope will
outlive us all.
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