Knowing not whence he came nor how nor why.

His earliest impulse is an infant cry,

His final privilege is that to weep.

A combatant although he sought no strife,

A guest unwelcome come unwillingly,

Given his vision that he may not see,

He names this unnamed paradox his life.

He learns to walk the forest and to love

Its green and brown, its song and season’s change,

Yet will not taste a berry that is strange