I do not know much,
but this much I know.

That each of us, be it man or woman,
faithful or faithless, healer or murderer,
comes from the same seed of the father,
and swam blind in the dark watered
womb of the mother.

That death slips upon us,
like a cloth dropped from the dinner table,
by the feeble hands of one who will
soon see the face of God.

That blades of grass will grow
from the graves of those we have loved,
yet have left us behind,
that the rose bush will wrap itself
with the poison vine.

That each soul walks towards
the sacred in its own manner,
and at its own pace.

I do not know much,
but this much I know.