The playthings of Bör’s cunning child,
crude things of unhewn stone and wood,
watched from the shadows,
hungry for him to fulfill the promise of his excellence,
and hungry to help him do so.
Many mysteries would they bring him through;
much would they teach him
– but he has the smell of other spirits on him.
Equally hungry and territorial spirits
who, though their meeting was a long way off,
had already marked the boy as theirs.
It was alright; these spirits are patient,
very patient.
In time another would come along,
and impetuously take them up in his plump little hand
and from the drops of his blood would spring the vine,
the pomegranate, and from his tears golden food of bees.
