A wise man once said,
We are the product of our environment,
And so it was,
As here you lie at Death's doorstep
And here I am,
Writing about it.
You did not choose to be born
Writing about it.
You did not choose to be born
Only to die forty-two days later,
Yet here you were,
Fulfilling your destiny
Just as I was fulfilling mine
As a writer
Born with the inherent gift of writing
And shaped by the nature of my environment
According to whether a sandstorm was blowing in my face
On the parched and arid sands of the Rajasthani desert
Or whether it was pouring cats and dogs
In the tropical and dense concrete jungles of Malaysia.
Rest easy,
Little One,
For soon your earthly troubles will be over.
Rest easy,
Little One,
For soon your earthly troubles will be over.
