James I

James I sleeps and dreams a dream made of dragons caught up between greens and whites. And he breathes. And with every movement of his chest, mine rejoices. Very few human beings can stand up and say I’VE SEEN A KING SLEEP. Well, I could claim more though I’ll say less.

James I duerme y sus pies delgados y blancos point up to the sky, a sky that refuses to show its true colours. When will you stop being so dull, solitary sky? ¿Cuándo te decidirás a ganarte el afecto del monarca y regalarle una noche-mañana de gloria? ¿Cuándo evitarás que los cielos de Grecia y Los Ángeles tengan que cumplir los deseos de su majestad? ¿When will the King, James I, see my humble face looking down as a sign of devotion, of loyalty, of numberless hopes, and discover that the Northern Star can also be in the South?

Pero el Rey no se inmuta y sueña su sueño desnudo de pies y piernas finas pero para nada débiles. Es que ha dado prueba de resistencia. Porque cuando fue convocado por un cónclave de ángeles y demonios, a la pregunta AM I BOTHERING YOU? contestó que no, llevándose a su palacio a ambos bandos bajo una misma piel para luego descubrir que el fin del mundo está tan lejos y sin embargo al alcance de su mano, la mano del silencio ahogado, la mano de mi señor James I.

Mas el Rey del Dragón Rojo, my sire, His Highness, no parece ser rozado por las cuestiones de esta tierra. Fais comme si je quittais la terre, j’ai trouvé mon ètoile. Yet, I go back to your presence, my King, as the star I dear lies in your hands. Do not drop it. Do not. Though the witches who feed me every day have hinted that your star is not for me to see, let alone to hold. Tantalising. How much will I bear it?

Pero estábamos en las piernas de James I. Y porque está no cansado, no aburrido, sino que siente que no puede ser aturdido por las vagas luces de la velocidad de las miradas que queman, es que permanece tranquilamente blanco, tranquilamente custodiado por su propia piel bajo un manto que le dice a la noche DO NOT DISTURB MY KING’S SLEEP. Though, when James I lets the dragons come and take his soul to distant Gardens, my eyes become a lighthouse hoping to guide His dreams and His way back to His bedroom. Su suave piel apenas sentadita en el hombro de la luna pareciera levitar en la misma garganta de la noche-día. Cymru. Su suave piel ha preguntado sobre sus antepasados reales embarcados a tierras vírgenes a los ojos europeos. Cwm Hyfryd. Colonies? Y sus preguntas despertaron una bandada de palabras armadas hasta las consonantes para ofrecer lucha a los pensamientos que suben y bajan por los ascensores que yo quisiera me dejaran en paz para así no tener que verme y así perder el rumbo que debería estar orientado twenty four seven a James I, King of A Thousand Well-Kept-Inside-a-Box Dreams.

His royal heart beats. And each beat shoots me dead. But I resist and stay, motionless. It’s hard to resist, though. How can I, a humble servant , think that James I will invite me for a walk along the shores of his terra? I’m only left with the gift of contemplation. Merciful King of Mine.

His royal heart plays the violin and each whisper is an elbow. Do not fall asleep, it is your King you should be taking care of, it is His Sleep you should be guarding. And there I remain, contemplating James I drift away still remaining untouched, unchallenged by the forces he unleashes with every inch of his snow-like presence. Until. Until he began to. Until James I opened up the doors of my senses and. A whisper that became a humming bird that became a song that became a story told by the tears running down my dark years. And the King spoke.

And when James I talks in his sleep, time travels and tenses hide and seek creating confusion, they cause chaos as they don’t know what to do, how to report, how to narrate what the King intends when in his dreams he sets his kites free. Kites I wish they headed south, a south of mountains and lakes and small villages, and valleys and emeralds.

My King speaks and I turn into a tabula rasa. Sería su bitácora de viaje, su mapa de ruta, su diario, su agenda para que con sus manos de dedos largos y blancos y finos y suaves escriba sus sueños para que otros los sueñen. Para que su pecho no sufra, no salte, no llore, no pierda el encanto de suaves hilos amatistas barriéndolo con el impulso de la quietud en la noche-sueño.

And his words build castles inhabited by names which cannot be called. Not because they are dressed in ugly clothes. Not because they cannot glide or shine when his chest seems to find unrest. But they hurt. Me. The King will not whisper my name sobre el hombro de la luna. And I remain still contemplating a kingdom which I know all access will be denied over and over again yet I protect. For you a thousand times over, James I, for you my landless dominions, my stars awaiting your there-is-no-way-to-avoid eyes when morning proclaims SHOWTIME.

Jamais.

James I’s dreams are too much for him, I fear, for his chest finds no comfort. Who will save you, my King, now? Will your knights unsheathe their swords to fight back the monsters which run down deep the waters of oblivion, punishment and forgiveness? Where are they now? Not here. Not here. Not here my Lord. Not here.

His sleep is not safe. Dreams have turned into seven-headed beasts and the Lady of the Night has given my Lord the cold shoulder. He’s suffering, I know, we know, yet I do not know what to do. James I is not easily pleased rumours say.

His arms lay still. One on his chest. The left one. The other one extended. The right one. They will not defend him. They will not. They will not. He could order them to protect him but he, being a King, will not fall into the trap of being called authoritarian, a tyrant, a soulless rex.

And when I look at his face. Countless hours could be devoted to describing his profile which does not appear to reflect the wars waged underneath his chest. His cheeks are quiet. His chin. His eyes don’t move in the dark. His nose doesn’t fight for air. His mouth has now closed the gates and words start going back to their cells to carry on praying for freedom. Another night will pass. Another night before forces gather again. Another night.

Jump. Saltar no para salvarme, sino para salvarnos.

Sin poder evitarlo (sin querer evitarlo aún sabiendo la pena) extendí mi brazo y con mi mano indigna toqué la mano de James I. And as I lay my hand over his, something which I could have never forseen happened. Not with a bang but with a whimper, James I took my hand to rest it on his chest. His sleep eased. His nightmares, gone.

James I sleeps and dreams a dream made of dragons caught up between greens and whites. And he breathes. And with every movement of his chest, mine rejoices. Very few human beings can stand up and say I’VE SEEN A KING SLEEP. Sleeping in the same bed.