The transformation of humanity
Is not so hard or long:
Mother starts it at the soul’s birth.
“Ma, Ma,” the soul cries out at the
first breath-inducing birth-smack.
“Mother, may I,” It asks as
merrily-romping child.
“Mother, I’m leaving,” it says with the
adventurousness of youth.
“I am for myself alone,” the young adult
brashly states.
“Ma, you are my Golden All” comes last, in the
full, ripe wisdom-maturity of age.
Reality points its finger and spins the wheel,
Again and again.
When the lessons are blended
And remembered,
The wheel stops.
