In a world where a father's love
Had become ancient Zen
Compassion a lonesome den
This is how I rewrite history
Without a pen

I gave him image
And I paid homage
To our similarities
And the gift i got back was my innocence
Through his eyes; my eyes

He is fine sculptured art
And I'm the hands that mold him
Into something more bolder
And wiser than I ever was,
And when time let's go of my hand
I shall continue to hold his

He is earth, I am spirit
He is the living embodiment
Of the dying prayer, that was written
In my palms before I was born
And I shall be there to guide him
When he stumbles upon impediment

I'm the mystery of the moon
And he is the warmth of the sun,
And though I've breathed in acrid gases
Before him, and injected the poison into my veins
Death dare not greet us, or at least not too soon

Son, I want to tell you about all the places I've been and how there's nothing like you on any map anywhere. I want to tell you I've been creating a warmer and safer environment for the king that you are. And I will love you beyond the edge of everything I've ever known.