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| Apollo |
The deeper the bond the mightier the loss.
A mother surrenders her child to the world.
Then, tossing and turning in bed,
The mother's fears are unfurled.
This scene's a repetition, as old
As the dilemma of the chicken and the egg.
But for the mother and her child, a first
Step into the marvelous, untold.
How come this little chick
Became such Hen, or such Cock?
They stride on their own now
But the mother's still in shock.
With a void beneath her wing
By the shape of her chick deformed,
The mother swings in between pride
And doubt: did she do her lot?
If Gibran was right, parents are the bow
And their offspring living arrows.
The mystery lies in the Archer,
To whose force we must bend.
The Bow is left to witness the flight,
The Arrow depends on its fletchings alone
While outside winds shape its aim
And gravity exerts its pull.
As the mother looks to her side,
The quiver is nonetheless empty.
Therefore the quivering lips.
Therefore all this repeated show.
