He’s as silent as a winter morn,
and legendary for his horn.
On a mountain, he was born
with a thorn in his side.
Nibbling kernels of corn,
he saw the world shorn
of its preconceptions and scorned
who ignored the hawthorn
where the firstborn
picked up a gold tricorne.
Never more would the world be as it was
because the winter-born
was named king on this morn.
And no one remained after his long reign.
They all melted away, leaving for gentler reins.