A mother is a sun. A gentle fire,
—(Sweetly luminous, softly bright)
Her warmth does not burn the living bread
She bakes within her body,

Nor blind the child she dresses
In a cloud of light
To shelter him from the storming night
Wherein owls hoot and tigers prowl.

Later she will become his moon as well,
And he himself a sun,
Sun seeking and a begetter of suns
In sun-washed days and sun-speckled nights,

In times populous with suns unmet,
Traveling among numberless crowds of suns
Known and unknown—
—(Haunted by that gentle fire).