Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of longing
of life for its own
They come through you but not from you,
and though they are with you, they are yours not.
You can give them your love but not your thoughts
,
as they have their own thoughts.
You can give your body a home,
but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the
house of tomorrow, the
you can not attend,
not even in your dreams.
You can try, to be like them, but
not looking, they'll make the same.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday and
.
You are the bows from which your children
be sent out as living arrows!
They are the sons and daughters of longing
of life for its own
They come through you but not from you,
and though they are with you, they are yours not.
You can give them your love but not your thoughts
,
as they have their own thoughts.
You can give your body a home,
but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the
house of tomorrow, the
you can not attend,
not even in your dreams.
You can try, to be like them, but
not looking, they'll make the same.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday and
.
You are the bows from which your children
be sent out as living arrows!
The archer sees the mark
on the path of the infinite,
and he bends you with his power,
his arrows fly it fast and far.
Let your bending in the hand of the shooter
be directed to joy.
For as he loves the arrow that flies,
loves He also the bow that is stable.
Khalil Gibran, Arab poet (1883-1931)
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