The king of the third kind has fallen asleep while listening to the urchin-song, a lullaby for the infidel. His brain is a trap of sound, bereft of all but the drip of blood; he does not hear the joyful trumpeting of creation or the creep of thought. A lullaby for the infidel, this is the third song he has heard this century. His tears come in short streams, they fall upon the sand; they are like drops of blood on the sand. The king of the third kind lies asleep, he is a prisoner in his own palace. The stars are cold and hard on his skin, and below his eyelids lies a crown of stapled black hair. The stars pierce through his urchin skin like shards of broken glass; at the base of his skulking brain lies the dream of a crown, and here the lieutenants o'er him dance with the fairies.
