Let us ask you, Mother, these chosen questions,
Most thought over, most mulled, most complex.
For we are yours, even if we are our own fathers,
And only you can banish the fears
that bother, that torment, that vex
Your youngest children, yet the oldest race.
We ask you this:
Through a field of lilies and roses
a gentle wind may blow.
But do the flowers begrudge every leaf
that they lose to the unseen current?
If the sun that shines upon their colors ...