I have one mother, who bore me long ago,
From her I came, and from her I still go
Into all that is not mother—into all that she
Hopes I will create, as she created me.
Creation is a burden, and creation is a woe,
For much happens by the flesh that we do not know,
And I went from my mother, hoping that she
Could let me go, and yet not forget me.
That is our sorrow! That is our fear:
That what made us then will not love us here.
O, let my thoughts be consistent and clear.
Let sounds that rebound make sense in my ear.
What began my life, please see it through,
No dream! but love that lives forever in you.
