A king once lived in Thule,
Faithful until the grave,
To whom his dying mistress
A golden goblet gave.
Nothing was dearer to him—
He drank from it each day;
His eyes would often tear up,
Drinking away each day.
When the time of his passing
Arrived, he told his towns
All would be left to his heir,
Except his drinking cup.
He assembled his brave knights,
Held a beautiful feast
In the halls of his fathers,
In castles by the sea.
And then the monarch arose
Emptying his goblet,
He hurled his prized possession
From the cliff, like a gauntlet.
He watched the chalice tumble
Into the raging ocean.
The king then closed his tired eyes
And never drank again.
Translation © David B. Gosselin
Featured in New Lyre Issue Two