Don’t listen to either of them –
You are the entire universe sheathed in
Wrinkly, Kangaroo skin.
Confidently declare –
Hey! See? The baby has his nose, or,
Her eyes, his smile, or her glare.
Frustrated I would wonder what is it
That they could but I could not see.
I know now that this is the gift of experience.
A gift received after a lifetime of waiting
And forbearance –
This ability to see another in another.
You are the result of
A daisy chain of such mirrored visages,
A practiced system of handing down vestiges –
Heirlooms that are passed down after the smallest of changes,
Generation after generation after generation.
You are the latest, most perfect daisy.
To ask you, little-mine.
You arrive late in the game, or maybe,
Just, just on time.
Tell me what things were like before.
What it was like when you were still about to be.
Unborn.
Unalive.
Unburdened by gravity.
Tell me what those nights were like?
Those days were like before light?
What sleep was like before dreams were dreams?
What color of light was light?
Tell me what it was like when you were being.
Becoming.
Expressing all the potential hidden
In all your being.
Tell me if gravity has been burdening.
The incessant, insistent ascending.
Rohit Nalluri 
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