The path

The foetus of a human
In the early days
Looks like a lizzard’s
Or a bird’s.
Though everything starts out undifferentiated
The seed of destiny is there all along,
Certain like the silence that becomes of a song:
Things become themselves.
Things become themselves.

What else could they be?
What else could you be?

What else could you be
But the lone pilgrim to Destiny
Trudging on a long, winding road,
Enfolden, naturally,
In jubilation,
In tragedy,
In jubilation,
In tragedy.