(When he was born, the moon was beyond full)
And truth be told to thrive is to consume.
He crowned the water spilled, a son, our Little Bull!
We tried to speak, but none of us was able
when his bright cries arose to fill the room.
(When he was born, the moon was beyond full)
A son, on Easter Sunday, the stuff of fable.
His face turned up toward God and, spring was in bloom.
He’s crowned, as waters spill, a prince, our Little Bull.
He’s born. The world is new, and life is beautiful.
His bones and blood and heart knit in the womb
(When he was born, the moon was way past full)
Rest here, in these soft arms, all matriarchal,
as Venus, now betrothed, awaits her bridegroom.
He’s crowned, let waters spill, grandson, our Little Bull.
Rare blessings seem to spill as from a pool,
and darkness is now jailed within a tomb.
(When he was born, the moon was beyond full)
He’s crowned as waters spilled, a prince, our Little Bull.
