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Poem

And thus the story had begun, 
For he is still quite young,
Desiring to look into the horizon,
Carefree, gulping his daily poison, 
Highlander in the loose,
Carrying his basket of blues,
Wishing to wander into alien lands,
And holding on to random hands,
He masters the art of fancy ardour,
In the name of the Holy Father,
Never has he dived into deep waves
But he has treaded into numerous caves,
Unraveling beings not known to me,
But I mind to be
His object of mysterious gaze;
As long as he stays
Far away like the stars yonder
For them, untangling his profound wonder,
Wearing out his mind by night
Robbing broken birds from flight;
And thus the story will come to an end,
For he will move on to a deeper bend,
Leaving traces of rusty shackles
Nowhere to be seen from country castles.
I’ll go on wondering if he ever thinks,
Of fairy tales, fools and kings…

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