Bless the generations that have branched to us,
For those primordial roots remain the same,
Embedded within the womb of the Night,
Which had never given birth in the first place.
Yet, here we are, speaking to ourselves in vain,
The Guarantee to Grow is but a dream,
While we wake in the face of Death’s bloom,
Which reveals the branch to trunk and roots.
By the tips of this great tree our future shines,
With an innocence that insults all ignorance.
These children of The Children of the Night,
Are duly given to their Great and Grand Mother.
Later’s light fades to a spectrum shadow,
To become that seed which will never grow,
For it is the tree, the trunk, root and branches
Unseen by itself all alone within womb.
Bless the generations that have branched to us,
For they know in Death more than I can speak,
Yet root and tip touch to remind me to reach,
For that innocence of mine I will forever keep.