My father bent his back, his finger pointed high at his hair
he preached to me in dismay
my child, do you not see?
With the grayness of my hair I bare knowledge that cannot compare. I can do as I so please, say as I so please as I have lived for almost a century

I could not believe my eyes for as his hair is gray mine is black, untouched, remaining of so called youth

Yet my brain lies under it, entrapped with my soul, with my being, and it has carried many over centuries, it has guided through the seven seas.
Its’ knowledge that it bares goes over that of gray hairs

My willingness to see to read and lay my eyes over all corners of the world, gives me an enlightenment not many have.

I may not know all but I carry wisdom brought by me through the pain you have entered to my world as a mere child, I have become my own guidance my own deity,

my flesh and blood are covered with gray hairs

I am my own mother, I am my own father

Yet you talk all night about how grand you are, how knowing you are, and for your age you only mean me well
how ignorant, childish it even shows you, ignoring what you have done.

I pity your superficiality, your unknowing knowingness,

You see a child, possibly the reflection of you.