“Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
Weary from distant travels
From moon to stars
Mountains and seas
Weary of days turned
Into weeks and months and years
Weary from the madness of living
Away from the the land of my birth.
The ants rush to and fro never stopping to ask whither or why they insistently move. They have no knowledge. One brush of the hand, one footprint and life gone as others continue to rush to and fro.
The loneliness of my soul is sad
Sorrow like an arrow pierces my heart
Sorrow drips slowly
Into the streets
Men and women
As sorrow passes them
Today was not
Sorrow passed them by.
Only the child
In them knew
My saddened soul
The elegant lady who pieced the top that Pat Sinople quilted.
She had a beautiful voice and a sad life, in my opinion. When we were sick, she would read to us. She read the entire book, Gone with the Wind to Mother when she was sick.