Youth is a royal child,
his hair glistening gold and his eyes river stones,
his skin delicate as a wet lily’s leaf.
He laughs as he leaps atop porcelain feet,
Velvet trailing against rounded calves.
The fireplace warms his doughy hands
while his liegemen shiver through cold winter nights.
As the boy grows, he pimples and lusts,
his calves swell with thirsting gluttony.
His hair dusts to gray, and clings to his robes
which are worn from a weary man’s work.
So child abates to man, of this I now know,
and the King cries in silence,
for he is child no more.