From the seed that is invisible and ideal,
Came and became the World Tree
Arbor Real.
Upon its branches, fruits of child will spring,
To fall by their weight of substance and inquiry,
Questioning their Mother and Her material.
The fall comes before winter,
Before they could truly appreciate the summer,
Upon the ground by the base of their Mother,
They pray for their own seeds unknown.
Then the roots become the branches,
And the ground becomes the illusion.
They look up at their dear Mother
In grateful confusion.
In her silence they understand their own material,
Destined to grow with their own seeds of ideal,
Falling became the illusion here.
We came and became Arbor Real.