Are the sons and daughters of life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you.
And although live with you, do not belong.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
Because they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls;
For their souls dwell in the House of tomorrow,
Which you cannot visit, not even in dream.
You can make you out to be like them, but don't procureis make them like you,
Because life goes not backwards and not delay with the days passed.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are hurled.
The Archer mira target towards infinity and stretches with all its strength
For his arrows protrude, fast and away.
Your bowing in the hand of the Archer is your joy:
As he loves the arrow that flies,
Loves also the bow that is stable.
Gibran Kahlil Gibran em “O Profeta”
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