He is an apple tree, gnarled with old age
But still bearing good fruits
Branches spread far across the starry twilit sky
Rooted to immeasurable depths in the rich brown earth

He is a mountain under the sea,
Often forgotten but always proud
Ancient and mysterious
Looking out to the world
One eye that sees all

He is the purity of a golden ring
Cold yet fertile
Multiplying itself for great prosperity

He is the invigorating riff of a victory song
A shining silver spear with long reach
A psilocybin shroom, opening the mind
To the world and to itself

He is the clashing of swords
And the strokes of a poet’s pen
The bloody red stains left
By a justified rage
He is wooden shoes steeped in tradition
Our guiding spirit
Our wise father
Our king
He may die but he will never yield