WHEN am I to be born, Father?
Shall I be born in spring?
So that they will see the beginning of new life,
the fresh green buds,
watch the lamb, free, playful, innocent,
and breathe the crisp, clear air?
Or summer?
When the warmth of the sun eases the pain
of work-tired muscle?
The time of endless, peaceful evenings,
of holiday and rest?
Autumn, perhaps.
They would know calmness,
the peace of things completed,
the fruitfulness of work well done.
Surely not winter?
When life itself is cold,
when the darkness seems stronger than the light?
When it seems that the morning will never come,
when hope seems far away?
I see. Winter, then.
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