The Bonds of Blood

What is this knot called family, that binds The living heart with cords of flesh and name? A father’s shade still walks the midnight hall And bids the son remember what was lost. A mother’s smile, both balm and bitter draught, Doth nourish even as it questions all.

Brothers and sisters, born of selfsame clay, Yet drift like stars that share one ancient sky. The child we rear, a tender, trembling shoot, Must learn to stand when we ourselves must fall.

O cruel and blessed paradox of kin! To love thee is to bleed, yet not to love Is to be nothing but a wandering ghost Unmoored from earth and all that makes us man.

The grave claims every sire, yet still they speak Through us who bear their features and their faults. Thus family is both the chain and key, The prison and the door that leads us home.