The prince of northern lands
was gifted
way beyond the limits of limits
of endless bounty

He bore, within his young years,
poems of ferocious beauty,
and his hands contained within them sculptures
of delicate movements

His apparition
had the expression of a thousand gods' ideas
of chivalrous beauty,
crosslegged there, in a circle of friends

In his twenties
he opened, momentarily,
his treasure chest
of untold riches,
spreading out,
before us,
a suite of poems of world, man, god;
a skin-colored pig figurine suckling her piglets
and numerous three-dimensional toys
of geometrical excellence

but then he sealed his chest,
never to unlock it again,
in fear of the strength
of his own character,
depriving the peoples of the world
of the importance of his art,
which the Cosmos had blessed him with,
bestowed on him,

and he was put on hold
by his own cowardice,
never again to act,
neither with words,
nor pencil,
nor brush,
nor chisel

destined for a living death
of loneliness and longevity,
eyes burning in his skull,
ears filled with the sour sounds
of remorse;
the end of days
spent in stinginess
and hollow worries;

no name,
no wife,
no children,
no reason


His line of beauty stopped right there,
and the world turned to other matters