THE SON OF MY MOTHER
Aren't you the fruit from the hallowed womb, the path I once strode?
The Son of My Mother
He looks and sees nothing.
He listens and hears nothing.
Yet I’m here waiting to be seen.
Voices in the wind waiting to be heard.
Aren’t you my brother; the other part of me and the son of my Mother?
I know you are, but you think I’m not.
Aren’t you the fruit from the hallowed womb, the path I once strode?
I know you are, but you think I’m not.
Aren’t we kinfolks, sustained by the ceaseless milk from the great Mother’s breast?
I know you are, but you think I’m not.
Ever since the invader sets her feet upon the great garden of peace to entice and distract the son of my Mother, peace departed from the great garden. Desolation graces her trail. And doom accompanies the path of her feet: the doom that has made a monster out of the son of my Mother.
I am no more being seen because I’ve set my feet on the noblest adventure, the peaceful path leading to the garden where the great Mother continuously whispers peace, such sound my soul adores.
I am no more being seen because I choose to live by the truth my forebears once spoke; treasuring what is left of my inheritance: piecing the fragment together, a long journey through the past into the glorious future.
The one with the soul of the sage, whose tent I often visit for wine, once told me that I should neither force myself to be seen nor force my voice to be heard. “when the jail term is completed, there shall be freedom” And until he’s truly free, the son of your Mother may never see you.
I am still waiting to be seen. And here, am I, waiting to be heard by the son of my Mother.
Youtube Video Credit: Asake (Yoga)
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