Wisdom cannot count him down,
he's cast his lot for pennies.
No shadow shares he's tennet frown,
by death he's lost so many.
Wicked is the space he gives,
to share with those about him.
Without the wish to share his soul,
his father cannot crown him.
Blood that cannot cross twice over,
keeps deep the roots of kings.
All those that find what knowledge brings,
aren't granted anything.
With every cross he's forced to carry,
lifes weight has got him bound.
He's not the pride to be the king,
his father keeps him down.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem