By Hans Frederik Brobjerg
29 March 2021

Of wood? No, your cradle of more airy —
of the thing was made that makes men ponder,
with the joy of the parents, who did carry
you to here from that mysterious yonder.

That here, to which we welcome you jubilant —
but we cannot, for with your appearance,
it was changed, and thus more exuberant,
you are welcoming us to its vast expanse.

That thing, the nameless, not-other concurrence —
soon you will unravel its mystery,
again, will change it; cause our transference
to a better world, as you did recently.

That joy, the most divine and most jolly —
it keeps increasing as those changes do,
and as it surpasses both wisdom and folly,
we see that your parents are born by you.