There was a mother
who, like all mothers,
was passionately fond of her little child,
whom she called
her prince, her king,
her treasure, her very sun.
I thought of you.
And I understood
— for what father does not carry
deep inside some maternal feelings? —
that it was no exaggeration
for that good mother to say:
you are more than a treasure,
you are worth more than the sun itself:
you are worth all Christs Blood!
How can I fail to take up your soul
— pure gold —
and place it in the forge,
and fashion it with fire and hammer,
until that gold nugget is turned
into a splendid jewel
to be offered to my God,
to your God?