My father often told me tales:

Hoards of ships sail into islands,
Vast distances from his children.
Many names they pass to their sons,
But there's one that remains. There's one.

One man was a poor gold miner,
Who breathed not very long ago,
Who caught his lucky star, higher
Than he could ever hope to go.

He took this star and molded it,
Played with it, held on without fail.
With energy, it glowed and lit
His hopes, his dreams, uncovered trail.

From this trail all his sons walked well
While staying absolutely still,
Until the trail took a sharp fold
Away from the glow of the gold.

A single ship sailed to our home,
Vast distances from his old land.
One name he passed on to his own.
One from a tale of a miner.