An early Netherlandish masterpiece of bizarre curiosities
A psychedelic gambol that Jheronimus Bosch brought to life
More than five hundred years ago.
A book, you could very well think of me, for I am to be read
From left to right, and on the outside too
A meaningful interconnection between my panels.
And frail though I am; I live yet
I can’t travel anymore; I live yet
Some parts of me is flaking; I live yet
My artist is remembered, is hailed, but lives not
Except in human honouring
Yet in the garden of earthly delights
Mankind knows not what to relish
Erudite interpretations have deciphered not
A complete unravelling of the mysteries of the garden
Of earthly delights. And neither will in time
Thus the millennium will go on
And I will live yet, maybe in another form.
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