The prince, yet uncrowned and unbound
By vanity, mortality, or heartbreak,
Runs, fascinated by the verb’s infinitive.
To shout, to laugh, to eat, to rest:
These are still treasures, guarded in a magical
Box given once to him by wise Bedouins.
This young prince, still part jester and knave,
Wages through forests and hillsides, exploring
With unkempt cloth and wild spirit twixt his eyes.
His balance and surefootedness is challenged
By whimsy and lack of experience, but
His fascination with All surpasses any obstacle.
He steals light with a paramount Jovian smile
Studded with intergalactic forces from lost love,
Which manages to bend the light’s beams into place.
Rambunctious and exuberant, this prince
is still new in the world, but gains speed and skill,
training naturally for Time’s trickery and spells.
With the treasures in his box and the gleam
In his merry eyes, he can know no despair
And spreads his even cheer with grace, neutrally.
For now, to shout, to rest, to smile, to dream:
His favorite past-times lie in reciting sounds
And seeing wondrous birds take flight.
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